


With Harlem Lights

by AmarieMelody



Series: Love in Harlem [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anti-Black Racism, Body Horror, Fluff and Smut, Gay & Black Harlem, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Mentions of alcoholism, Mutilation, Racism, Reincarnated Soulmate AU, Sam Steve Angst & Hurt/Comfort, SamSteve Gift Exchange, Segregation/Interracial Couple Laws, gentrification, harlem renaissance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmarieMelody/pseuds/AmarieMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it mean for your Soulmate to love you so much that they cut your shared Mark out to protect you? And what if, one day, such a thing could be righted?</p><p>SamSteve Soulmate/Reincarnated Soulmate AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the SamSteve Exchange 2015 and specifically for Zombee! Here you are, dear friend! Hope you like and enjoy! :D 
> 
> Such **huge** thanks to platonicharmonics, hobbitkaiju  & LSR for all your help and support! It means so, so much! Thank you truly & kindly, you beautiful souls!

_They say that time rectifies some injustices._

_Injustices that kill the body._

_Crush the hope._

_Hush the laughter._

_Break the heart._

_Wound the soul._

_With patience, some injustices are rectified by time._

_Just some._

_They say…_

-

It is in 1886 that the case of _Kyle-Hemsen vs. Milledge_ cements the law of the land of the United States of America. 

Amalia Kyle was a lesbian Black woman hailing from Galveston, Texas. After a brief metamorphosis in which she suffered a bout of acne, her Mark formed at the age of twenty-three. A beautiful Mark it was, of the shape of a blooming rose made of intricate petals and a stem that bore no thorns. As she had yet to meet and Bond the Soulmate that shared her Mark, it glowed no color against her sienna skin and remained grey. 

There have always been those that have had more than one Mark and, thus, had more than one Soulmate to meet. There have always been those that have received their Marks far into their forties and fifties and even some as early as their toddler years. There have always been those who have found their Soulmate to not necessarily be a romantic lover, but an unrelated sibling, a comrade, a best friend, a parental figure. There are those that have their Mark on the inside of their wrist, in the middle of their back, on the outside of their ankle, and sometimes even right on their cheek. And there are even those that have never and will never receive a Mark at all.

Ms. Amalia Kyle, having only one Mark (on the inside of her left ankle) at a fine age, truly hoped that her time of finding and bonding with her Soulmate would be enjoyable. 

It was not. 

As she slept, like nearly all those Marked, she faintly dreamed of her future partner and they her. From those dreams, she woke up in such a sweat and a scream in the middle of the night that her parents came running down the halls to her. 

Her Soulmate was a bisexual White woman hailing from a town actually not all that far from Galveston. Her name was Lucy Hemsen. 

Ms. Amaila Kyle’s parents counseled her as every Negro family member with an endangered Marked relative did: keep quiet, keep your Mark hidden, go nowhere near the White devil you are Marked with and go nowhere near any police or government official or really anyone-especially a White man-with paper and a badge. 

Lucy Hemsen, meanwhile, sought out her Soulmate without informing her family of the race and gender of her Soulmate. She sought out Kyle in the dead of night using only her vague dreams as a compass, when only the moon and stars can bear witness to two potential lovers’ meeting. Kyle was understandably terrified of Hemsen’s presence. But Hemsen assured her that she meant no harm-far from it, she meant for them to devise a plan together to hide their Marks. After much more reassurances, Kyle agreed to speak with Hemsen. 

They mutually agreed on several points. They would never join and interlace bare hands palm-to-palm, thus never Bonding and making their Marks glow. In regards to the disparity of privilege and, thus, the ability to move, Kyle would be able to stay right where she was while Hemsen would insist that her relatively affluent family travel the country “for fun”. And they would never allow anything more than reluctant partnership in their relationship, lest the temptation to Bond and be done with it become too great. 

These conditions would persist until one of them found a doctor that could cut out their matching Marks and keep quiet. The illegal industry of cutting was quite dangerous. A great many died from blood loss and infection. Even more suffered terribly from their vision permanently greying and blackening at the edges from severe depression and anxiety. Others vomited repeatedly and convulsed quietly violently. Some died from a combination of all of the above. The rest were quite simply never the same again, forever feeling the dull, piercing ache of the permanent loss of their Soulmate in the back of their minds. 

To be cut was tantamount to suicide and/or willfully contracting a severe chronic illness. Still, it was the only viable option for Kyle and Hemsen. In the meantime, they would keep quiet. 

But they were not to be so fortunate. 

Kyle was sought out by Hemsen one last time and informed that someone may be onto them. Hemsen did her absolute best to cover her tracks, but she may very well have been followed. They had both done their best to hide their matching Marks as much as possible: wearing makeup over the Mark, wearing long dresses and stockings over their legs at all times. Yet it was not enough. 

Indeed, they were found out: by Hemsen’s elder brother. Her brother immediately informed their parents and, disgusted and outraged, they brought the case to the sheriff. Without even a trial to test if Kyle and Hemsen did share a Mark, crudely gave them a choice between being shot or hanged. The sheriff considered himself a merciful man in that he also offered them the option of being shot or hanged together.

Kyle took their case to the courts, seeking an acquittal on the grounds that neither she nor Hemsen could control what Marks they received, much less whom their destined Soulmate is. Hemsen’s distant Uncle agreed to hire the best lawyers available and Kyle spoke their case. For more than a year, they fought in the courts of Galveston, against Judge Gregory Milledge, for their right to live. 

They lost. 

Kyle and Hemsen dared to take their case all the way to the Supreme Court. For yet another year and several months, they fought fiercely. They appeared nigh unstoppable. Universally inspirational. Newspaper headlines and gossip and hearsay and reports and the like could only ever talk about the case of _Kyle-Hemsen vs. Milledge_. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded outside the Supreme Court doors. They chanted and shouted and sang all day and all night. Some called for Kyle and Hemsen to be spared and even celebrated. Some declared Hemsen a nigger lover. Some demanded Kyle put to good use servicing White men’s lust before she was surely executed. Some even dared to come forward, admitting that they were an interracial and/or non-heterosexual Soulmate couple consisting of a Colored person and a White person. 

But they lost once again. 

Their families and friends were not allowed to visit them the night before. Any and all continued protests in Kyle and Hemsen’s favor were met with systematic brutality by police-batons and whips and firearms tore through the crowds indiscriminately. Those that celebrated against Kyle and Hemsen were offered jackets for when it was cold and umbrellas for when it rained and when it was much too hot. 

The very next morning, they were executed by firing squad before an audience of more than twenty-thousand. And thus the precedent of _Kyle-Hemsen vs. Milledge (1886)_ was set in the United States of America. The legality of execution for interracial Soulmate couples-especially those of the same sex-on the premise of one Colored person with one White person sharing a Mark was established. In addition to this decree, the requirement of all people to register their Marks with the federal government upon receiving them was made. 

And with that decree, in the subsequent year alone, more than 400 such Soulmate couples were executed.

-

**Atlanta, Georgia, 2007**

As soon as Sam’s Mark forms upon his eighteenth birthday, his grandmother takes him to the nearest Mark & Soulmate Clinic. 

“Make sure you keep that covered up, baby”, she cautioned as they drove, “Marks are special, special things that are just between you, your Partners and this nice doctor that we’re gonna see, ‘kay?” 

Sam nodded and pulled his left sleeve farther down. “Yes ma’am.” 

His heart was just racing with excitement. He was Marked. All throughout his mind, ideas of who he shares a Mark with bounced around. Are they a pilot? He’d always wanted to be a pilot (or at least, get in the air any way he can) and it would be so, so cool if he was Marked with someone that likes to be in the air too! Maybe it’s a celebrity? An actor? A singer? A pianist? Or probably a writer? Ohh, a comic book writer? Or how about a chef? A really, really good chef ‘cause Sam loved to eat. Grandma don’t call him a human disposal unit for nothing. 

By the time they reached the clinic, Sam was struggling not to bounce in his seat. Ohh, who was it?!

Their local Mark & Soulmate Clinic is a quaint, two-story brick building comfortably nestled in among a block full of internal and family medicine practices, dental practices and obstetric & gynecological practices. Its bricks are a warm, welcoming blend of umber, maroon and chestnut. The low-hanging sign right beside the double doors carries the name of the practicing doctor: Dr. Betty Ross. Overhead, the sun shines bright, lending a healthy glow to the many trimmed and colorful flora circling around the building. Tulips and begonias and chrysanthemums and bright green shrubs gently sway in the breeze, adding to the welcoming of patients. 

Grandma finds a parking space easily in the small lot. It’s just as cheery and welcoming inside. The waiting room’s wallpaper is an earthy, muted mahogany and the carpet is a deep sandy brown. Two ceiling fans circulate air throughout the room. Natural light gently filters in from the windows. A little play area for kids to the side adds a splash of color. There are only three other people in the waiting room and they all exchange nods and smiles with Grandma and Sam.

All over are pamphlets, magazines, books and bulletin boards. A great many of them are set up with signs saying “Please help yourself!” and “Take one only, please!”. On one side table, there’s a set of pamphlets with information on how Marking and Bonding can affect transgender people that take hormones, along with what to do and where to go for more help. One bulletin board hosts the dates for a barbeque event supporting those with polyamorous Markings and relationships. A book on resources for Unmarked and Unbonded couples sits on another side table. 

The front desk nurse has a hearing aid wrapped around his ear sports a name tag that says “Clint” and he smiles upon seeing Sam and practically splits his face in half when he turns his gaze onto Grandma. He lifts his hands and signs and Grandma signs back. Sam only understands part of the conversation, but he loves their open, friendly expressions towards each other.

 _Ms. Wilson! Is this the next one of yours to get a Mark?_

_Yes he is, baby! How you been doing?_

_Good, good. Still enjoying teaching archery classes on the weekends and my kids are just growing faster than I can catch. And how about you?_

_Oh, just getting greyer and greyer with this one and the others back home. My kids and grandkids just in and out my damn house, I swear._

_Aw, that’s good. Real good. You say hi to everyone for me and go on and put your guy’s info here for us and we’ll get you to seeing the doc._ Clint puts papers and a pen together on a clipboard and hands them to Grandma. He then turns to Sam and switches to verbal. 

“Hey there, kiddo! I’m Clint!”

Sam smiles and waves. “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you.” 

Clint smiles right back. Sam and Grandma sit down and he reads one of the magazines while she fills out his paperwork (he’s eighteen, but there’s a hell of a lot of stuff Grandma does better than him-like fill out demographic papers), and then hands it back to Clint. They don’t wait long before another nurse, Darcy, comes to take them to their exam room. Sam likes Darcy’s Tweety Bird-themed scrubs and bright pink running shoes. 

She gets his vitals, looks at his Mark and notes its physical characteristics, and asks him if he’s felt any changes since the Mark formed, which could indicate a metamorphosis that some people go through. Sam replies in the negative. 

“Well”, Darcy starts as she signs off on her clipboard”, “You seem pretty good to me, Mr. Wilson. Congratulations. Do you have any questions for me?” 

Both Sam and Grandma shake their heads. “No, not that we can think of.”

Darcy smiles and moves towards the door. “Alright, then. Since your Mark is just on your arm and not, like, on your stomach or anything, no need for a dressing gown. You’re good to go and Dr. Ross will be in with you shortly.” 

About twenty minutes later, Dr. Ross comes in. She’s a tall White woman with compassionate blue eyes peering at Sam behind square glasses. Her dark hair is in a casual bun at the nape of her neck. There’s not a single stain on her white lab coat and below that, she wears a thin sweater and khaki pants. She extends a handshake to both of them. “Hello there. My name is Dr. Ross, but you can call me Betty. It’s a pleasure to meet you two.” 

The Wilsons return the greeting and Dr. Ross gets right down to examining the Mark. 

Sam’s Mark is beautiful. 

It is a falcon. 

It takes up the whole inside of his left wrist. Its position is so that the viewer sees the side of it. The eye is fierce and focused, like it’s honed in on prey and is ready to swoop down at a moment’s notice. Extended wide, the wings are made up of a plethora of intricately-designed feathers all facing the same direction. Its clawed feet are extended, curved and razor sharp. Out of its open beak, Sam can imagine a proud, fearsome battle cry. He is proud of his Mark. 

Dr. Ross’ hands gently run over her patient’s Mark, feeling its deep indentation in the dark skin. Her fingers are light and cool as they trace all over the bird’s body and her brow wrinkles in concentration. “Hmmm…” 

Grandma squeezes Sam’s upper arms. “Everything alright, doc?” 

The doctor looks as though she’s about to nod her head when, suddenly, her hands stop and her eyes go wide. “Oh. I see.” 

Sam leans forward, excitement bubbling up again. “What is it, Betty? Whaddaya see? Do ya see who my Soulmate is?” 

Dr. Ross smiles warmly at him. “Well, no, honey. I can’t see that until I can go through our data and see if there’s a matching Mark for you. But I _do_ see something interesting here.” 

Grandma leans forward too. “What’s interesting?” 

Dr. Ross points at a tiny circle just resting on the lower left leg of Sam’s falcon. Upon closer inspection, Grandma and Sam can see that there are even tinier little ticks spaced evenly inside the circle. Two lines join at the center and point at different spots between the ticks. 

It is a clock. 

Sam, nearly breathless with wonder, asks, “W-what does that mean? Why is a clock here?” 

Dr. Ross keeps her warm smile and answers, “To have a Mark that sports a clock means that you’re a reincarnate, sweetie. This means that there was a time where you had a Soulmate. But for whatever reason, you couldn’t be together. So now you’re both reincarnated to this time and it’s during this time that you’re supposed to be reunited and safely able to be with each other.” 

While Sam stares in shock, Grandma grimaces. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re calling my grandson a ‘reincarnate’? Ma’am, I have several children and grandchildren and I’ve brought most of them to different clinics all over the place, including this one, with you. And I’ve never seen any a’them with a Mark like this. You telling me my Sammy has a past life with some mystery person?” 

Dr. Ross pushes her glasses higher up her nose. “Yes ma’am. And I know it’s not welcome news and you have no other precedent for this in your family. However, every time we’ve seen this clock for the last fifty years, it’s only ever meant that the Soulmates are reincarnated.” 

Sam’s voice is quieter and unsteady. He can’t take his eyes off that little clock on the inside of his wrist. “But…why couldn’t we be together? We didn’t…does that mean we…we didn’t like each other?” He lifts his sad brown eyes to the doctor. 

Her smile becomes sadder, but no less sincere as she reaches forward to squeeze his hand. “Oh no. It probably doesn’t mean that. In fact, I can give you some good news: in just about every case of reincarnated Soulmates getting back together, the people report high rates of satisfaction, compatibility and a general sense of contentment. We’ve had just about every case show this, from mentor-student relationships to sibling-like relationships.” She squeezes his hand again. “So, going by all of those examples, it’s highly unlikely that you just didn’t like each other back then.” 

Sam is only marginally comforted. “Then _why_? I don’t get it…” 

“Well, unfortunately, I…don’t really have any good news to share there. You see, we still haven’t come up with a way to figure out _which_ time period you came from and _who_ you were before then. So it…” Dr. Ross trails off at Sam’s crestfallen face. 

Grandma finishes, her voice grave, “It could’ve been anywhere, any time and for any reason.” 

“Yes, ma’am”, Dr. Ross nods, “Maybe it was feuding families that took you apart. Maybe war. Sometimes discriminatory laws. Or one of you could have perished from a disease before your wedding. And sometimes, even, you never got the chance to meet at all in the past life. As the community’s research stands now, there’s just no way to track anything significant _unless_ the dreams you begin to have of your life with your Soulmate can lend us clues and, depending, it can be nice to help you reunite in the place your past lives took place in.”

“And you _can_ rest assured that you _will_ meet in this lifetime. We’ve yet to see that clock not guarantee it, even before we started a database to help Soulmates find each other quicker. Like I said, it’s just a matter of patience and a possibly a little luck with clues.”

“When you do meet, you two will usually already have ideas and feelings of who the other person is and what they meant to you. The most important, memorable parts of your relationship-but usually, no other memories, take care-will come to fruition and your Bond will be restored when you join bare hands again.”

It’s quiet in the exam room for a good, long while. The only sound in the room is Sam’s deep, deep breaths. Grandma wraps him in a tight hug from behind and Dr. Ross doesn’t let his hand go. This wasn’t what anyone expected. This wasn’t what anyone wanted. An eighteen-year-old excited to be Marked, only to find out…this. 

When Sam next speaks, his voice is small. “Are you sure it wasn’t me? It was just something else and they couldn’t stay with me or even meet me?” 

Grandma kisses his cheek. “She’s sure, baby. We’re all sure. You could be living a thousand different lives all over the place an’ anyone’d be lucky as anything to have you. That’s a fact.” 

Dr. Ross nods in agreement. “That’s right. It really was most likely something else, something that was out of both of your controls.” 

“Well, can you find out who it was…is now? I'd really like to know…” 

“Oh, yes! Let’s see…” Dr. Ross pulls the side table with the Mark scanner over. She winks at Sam. “This’ll be easy, since your Mark is just on your arm. You wouldn’t believe all the maneuvering needed for people who have Marks in all kinds of places on their bodies. We have a whole scanner room set off just for that!” 

Feeling a slight leap of hope in his heart, Sam lets Dr. Ross move his wrist into position for the scanner. The green light runs over his arm thrice, there’s a cheerful _beep_ and then they’re all looking at the computer as it runs through thousands upon millions of voluntarily-registered Marks to find Sam’s match. 

Ten seconds later, hope is crushed right out of Sam’s heart. 

The screen reads: _Negative. No matching Marks found._

He sags against Grandma’s body. He keeps staring and staring at the screen, hoping that something else will happen, that the computer will change its mind and show him that there is a match…

Please let there be a match…please…

But of course the screen doesn't change. There’s no mistake to be made and Sam already knows that running a second scan would only yield the same result. It’s the damn day after his birthday and he wants to sob into a pillow. 

Dr. Ross’ voice is quiet and her eyes sympathetic as she regards the Wilsons. “I know this is disappointing and I’m truly sorry. But now that your Mark is scanned, it’s in the database and that means that as soon as another person has their Mark scanned and it matches yours? We’ll notify you immediately and we can go from there.” 

Grandma adds, “Plus, your dreams can probably help you find that person quicker, baby. If you can catch what place you two were in, someone else may just be having the same dreams. And you’ll both meet when the time is right.”

Sam smiles with his lips, but neither his eyes nor his heart.

-

**Los Angeles, California, 2007**

For as long as Steve can remember, he’s always had a birthmark on the inside of his right forearm.

It’s quite an ugly birthmark, too. The marred flesh is a dark pink and in the shape of a perfect oval. So strangely textured it is that there have been several times when Steve can’t help but run experimental, disgusted fingers over it. In some parts it’s so rough as to make sandpaper feel soft. In most other parts, it’s bumpy and puckered like a keloid. 

But it never bothered otherwise him so, for the first seventeen years of his life, he simply made sure to wear long sleeves and go about his business. 

That changes on the day after his eighteenth birthday, when it starts to itch and itch and _itch_ something awful. 

Mama put antipruritic cream on it night after night, but her son found no relief. Steve’s birthmark itched so much that he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate on his schoolwork. He scratched so much in public that he nearly pushed his sleeve up and exposed the birthmark to morbidly curious eyes. 

When Mama took him to the dermatologist, the doctor couldn’t figure out what was going wrong. Poor Steve wasn’t doing anything new-no new foods, no new laundry detergent, no new clothing materials, no new soaps. Mama was irritated and asked the doctor to refer them to someone who could give them some answers because she wasn’t spending another fucking day watching her baby _itch_. (And when the doctor looked like he wanted to politely interject that, as Steve was eighteen and already towering over here and therefore, he was not a baby, Mama gave him a glare of pure death.) 

The doctor referred them to another doctor specializing in Soulmates & Marks, Dr. Nick Fury. 

Both Mama and Steve doubt it’ll help, but they make an appointment anyway. As Mama drives to the doctor’s office, Steve is just itching and…trying to figure out how he feels about possibly being Marked. He never really…expected to be Marked. Never expected that it would happen to him, that he could Bond with someone. But now that it could happen…

They reach Dr. Fury’s practice before they know it. 

Steve is in a daze as the front desk nurse, a cheery Jane Foster, has his mom sign him in and fill out all his paperwork. He vaguely remembers another nurse, whose name and face he can’t remember, leading them to their exam room where they wait for Dr. Fury. He sits close to Mama while they wait and her hand in his is a constant reassurance quieting the worry in his mind. 

Dr. Fury finally comes in and he’s a tall Black man with an eye patch over his left eye. His white lab coat is pristine and severely starched. Beneath his lab coat is a black polo shirt and dark blue jeans. A closely-trimmed beard frames his mouth and chin. He comes forward to shake their hands. “Morning. I’m Dr. Nick Fury. So I understand that our young man here was referred to me for a rash?” 

Mama nods, “Yes sir, he was. Well, we thought it was just a birthmark for a long time. But now that’s it’s started itching…” 

“You don’t know what it is anymore”, Dr. Fury finishes. 

Steve winces as he resists the urge to scratch again. “You think you can help me, doc?” 

Dr. Fury puts gloves on and closely examines at Steve’s arm. When he’s done, he idly rubs at his beard, then gestures with a jerk of his head for his patient to get on the exam table. “Hop on up here. Think we got a clue about what’s going on.” 

Steve obliges and the older man pulls the Mark scanner beside the table. Steve lies back, stretching out his long legs and biting his lip as the doctor positions his arm under the scanner. Mama comes up beside him and gently brushes his hair back from his forehead. The green light runs over his arm thrice, there’s a cheerful _beep_ and then they’re all looking at the computer as it runs through thousands upon millions of registered Marks to see if Steve’s “birthmark” is actually something more…actually a match with another human being or two or three... 

His heart starts to pound. He never really thought about it before, but if there’s any possibility…any possibility at all, Steve can only imagine the journey of finding, meeting and Bonding with those people. What are their names? Where are they from? How long have they had their Mark, or has it even formed before? 

Someone…someone just for him and him, just for them…

Ten seconds later, Steve’s imaginings go up thinner than a wisp of smoke. 

The screen reads: _Mark Incomplete. 3,024 potential matching Marks found._

Dr. Fury’s voice is quiet, pensive. “…Thought so…” 

While Steve’s eyes frantically flicker between the screen and the doctor, Mama demands, “What? Thought what? Fuck is goin’ on with my son, doc?” Her native Brooklyn anger is creeping into her tone. 

Dr. Fury looks back at the mother and the patient and explains, “Son, that was never a ‘birthmark’. You’re what we call a reincarnated cut. Let’s look at your Mark again.”

“…A ‘reincarnated cut’”, Steve numbly repeats. 

Dr. Fury nods. He gently takes Steve’s forearm into his still-gloved hands and points to a tiny, tiny spot in the reddened flesh of his birth-no, _Mark_.

Upon closer inspection, Mama and Steve can see that there are even tinier little ticks spaced evenly inside the circle. Two lines join at the center and point at different spots between the ticks. 

It is a clock.

Mama voices Steve’s conclusion. “That…part of my son’s Mark means that he’s got another, past life? How does that work…?” 

Dr. Fury answers, “Ma’am, it works because that’s just the science. There are Marked people who are reincarnated for the sole reason that, for any given reason, they were unable to be with the persons they shared a Mark with.” 

Steve, feeling a strange sense of…of… _loss_ asks, “Why couldn’t they be together?” 

“Couple of reasons. Maybe one of you got sick and died too young. Sometimes one of you got deployed and never made it home from the war or, hell, you might’ve died right when your Soulmates were being born. All kinds of reasons why you couldn’t be together. And unfortunately we do not yet possess the technology or science to figure out where and who you were. You could’ve been anyone, anywhere.” 

Fury leans forward to clasp a warm hand over Steve’s broad shoulder. “There’s just no way to tell right now. And now I assume you want to know what ‘cut’ means?” 

It’s a long, long time before Steve can reply. He stares at this Mark-that-he-thought-was-just-an-ugly-birthmark. For a moment, just a _moment_ , he started to imagine a very, very special person for him to meet. A very, very special person and now they’ve become farther and farther away and he hasn’t even met them. Mama gently pats his leg and Dr. Fury looks at him with a warm, concerned eye. 

“You gonna be okay, kid?” Fury asks. 

Steve swallows, and then, without looking up from his Mark, responds. “Yeah…yeah. I’m okay. I…what does ‘cut’ mean?” 

Dr. Fury elaborates, “A couple of decades ago-and they may even still be operating now-there was a worldwide, underground network of doctors that would cut people’s Marks out for a fee.” 

Mama gasps and Steve’s eyes shoot up from staring at his Mark. “Why the hell would they…?” 

“People got cut for all kinds of reasons ma’am and, really, most of those reasons we’ve found to be similar to the reasons people got reincarnated. Those are the same reasons I listed for you before. Now today, for the most part, people don’t need to get cut because most of the time Marks don’t make mistakes as far as your partners. But when they do, they do it safely and now we call it ‘surgical Mark removal’ and it’s a hell of a lot safer and more accepted than it used to be.” 

He points at Steve’s Mark. “People who have gotten cut in their past lives and they’re reincarnated, they bear the scar that formed immediately after they got their cut and they could take the bandages off. You’re not the first people to think it’s just a birthmark. Now, part of the reincarnation deal is that you and your partner get to have your Marks back and so your Mark starts to take form again over the old scar. That’s where the itching comes from-it’s a type of metamorphosis.”

“This is the only explanation when you got a combination of a ‘birthmark’ like that, itching and that itty bitty clock. Still with me?” 

Steve nods, feeling even more numb than before. 

Mama once again asks the question that Steve wants to ask, but cannot make his tongue move to formulate it. “But doctor, you said the Mark is forming again, right? So why can’t the scanner find my son’s match?” 

“Ah, because it’s _just_ forming.” He carefully takes Steve’s forearm in his gloved hands again. He looks at it, nodding slowly. “A person’s naked eye can just make out lines here and there that form the Mark’s design. But that’s it. All the scanner can tell us is that you _do_ have a Mark forming here, but since it’s still unclear, you could have a match with over 3,000 people. An’ I’m pretty sure you don’t want to have to meet over 3,000 people, kid.” 

Both Mama and Steve smile at Dr. Fury’s wry humor. Small comfort, given the circumstances. 

But comfort nonetheless. They take it.

Steve’s voice still sounds hollow, even to his own ears. “There’s…no way to make the formation speed up? Or any other kind of technology to figure out…?” He trails off at Dr. Fury’s forlorn expression. 

“Not that we know of. You’ll just have to wait. All the assurance I can give you is that precedent tells us that it shouldn’t be more than a decade for your Mark to form, you to come back here, have it scanned, and then we can see who your match is. And _usually_ your match already has their Mark formed too. The only other help that exists is the natural one-as more and more of your Mark forms, you’ll have dreams of your past life with that person.” 

“And when you finally do get to meet that Soulmate, it’s…well, it’s pretty satisfying. It’s more than just a meet-up; it’s a reunion that may have taken decades to centuries and sometimes even millennia to take place. Our studies show that it feels real, real good for the people involved. You’ll join bare hands with interlaced fingers and you’ll finally be allowed to Bond, regardless of if you got the chance to do so in your past life. You have that to look forward to.” 

Mama beams beside him and strokes his hair. “See, honey? Just like Dr. Fury just said-something to look forward to. I’m sure that whoever it is misses you just as much as you miss them. And it’ll be wonderful when you meet again. You just gotta hold that excitement in your belly and be patient.” 

But Steve isn’t satisfied. Steve isn’t excited. And he sure as hell isn’t patient. He tries not to lean too heavily against his mother. “So…you’re telling me that there’s no way to know who or what I was in my past life?”  
Dr. Fury nods. “Correct.” 

“And I can’t speed up the forming of my Mark. I can’t know much about our shared…past life…at all outside of any dreams I have and I’m sure you’re going to tell me that I may not remember most of my dreams anyway?” 

“Correct again.” 

“Then can I know one thing? Before I meet them?” 

“What’s that?” 

“What…what did I do to hurt them? What did I do to…make myself go and get my Mark cut out? It must’ve hurt them too when I got it done. What kind of person does that?” Steve furiously blinks away the smarting in his eyes. 

Mama wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, Steve…” 

Dr. Fury ponders his response, stroking at his beard. His eye on Steve goes from mildly shocked to warm with concern again. When he does speak, his voice is careful, slow. “I am not going to dispute that you getting cut hurt them just as much as it hurt you, if not more so in some cases. No room for lies here-it won’t help anything.” 

Mama’s eyes are steely blue. “So you’re saying that my son did this on purpose? That he wanted to hurt his own Soulmate on purpose?” 

Steve lifts eyes that are in the beginning stages of being haunted to the doctor. 

Dr. Fury’s voice stays steady. “No, I’m not saying that. That’s most likely not even the reality. Like I said, there are a number of factors for why you got cut. Most likely it was something neither of you could help. There was a reason you couldn’t be together and, on top of that, there was a reason your Marks couldn’t be found to match by an authority of some kind.” 

“There have been discriminatory laws all over the place against differing kinds of people with matching Marks. Same-sex, interracial, polyamorous Marks…you name it, there have been laws and practices against it that endangered people’s whole lives. You two may have been one of those kinds of illegal couples. That’s a common enough case among reincarnates that bear past-cutting scars today, unless they-and this could include you, son-were cut against their will.”

Steve blanches at the thought of being held down and forced to… 

Dr. Fury rubs his beard again and looks Steve dead in the eye. “But for now, unless your dreams tell us otherwise, we’re going to assume that you weren’t cut against your will. From that precedent, the _most likely reason_ you got yourself cut is to protect the other person. Not to hurt them.” 

“…You probably can’t tell me if I got cut _because_ I was hurting them in the first place either, huh?” 

Mama smiles softly. “No, honey. I don’t think Dr. Fury can tell you that. But I’m sure he could tell you that that’s not a likely case either.” 

Dr. Fury nods. “Your mother’s right. Listen to her. Marks don’t make mistakes. Doubt that you’d hurt them so much that that made you get cut. And before you ask, no, I also don’t know if you managed to protect them when you got it done. You come back when you can make sense of your dreams and/or when more of your Mark forms and takes a shape. Otherwise, all we can do is wait and see.” 

All there is to do is be patient. 

And Steve doesn’t like it one bit.

-

Both Dr. Ross and Dr. Fury emphasize to their patients and their family members that the way they feel is normal. So, so normal. Who wants to think about having a past life and being reincarnated into the future? Who wants to wonder about the possible vast space of time and identity left behind and untracked? It seems that everyone else that is not reincarnated, much less a _reincarnated cut_ , has it so much easier. No, just wait a few years, a few months, a few weeks and they’ll happily find their Soulmate in just this one life. 

Then what drove the partners apart? How terrifying, how inconceivable is it to imagine all the thousands of wars and diseases and deaths and mix ups and all the in-between that could’ve been responsible. It’s too frightening and overwhelming to contemplate or even accept in the first place. 

So the patients usually do what young human beings do when, in part, they are grappling for a sense of control. 

They implicate themselves.

Sam wonders what was wrong with him, what made him unwanted in the first place. And to be so unwanted that the Mark reincarnated them to this time period. Just about every day he logs onto the Soulmate Mark database and goes through the answering machine to check for something. Anything. 

No alert e-mails from Dr. Ross’ office. 

_The color of his skin?_

No voice mail messages. 

_His age?_

No Mark matches. 

_His personality?_

No even almost-matches. Hell, he’d take almost-matches. 

_His interests?_

What was it? What was it about him? What did he do? What did he say? 

It’s not long before Dr. Ross recommends a therapist and possible anti-depressants for him. She assures them once more that this is normal for a great many reincarnates, that there’s nothing wrong with Sam’s worrying outside of what it’s doing to his health. Grandma and Sam’s siblings drop hint after hint after hint that he should take Dr. Ross up on her recommendations. The insurance got it all covered, the specialized Soulmate therapy offices aren’t too far from the house and, dammit, it’s likely that he’ll be able to snag a Black therapist. 

What’s not to try? 

Sam compromises: he only wants to talk to Grandma and Dr. Ross. Just…he doesn’t want more people than necessary in on his situation. Grandma and Dr. Ross agree with him. So it’s to see Dr. Ross every Wednesday after school and regular talks with Grandma, especially on quiet evenings when they can sit together on the front porch swing and watch the cars idly drive by in the neighborhood as they talk. 

But for now, this morning, Sam is refreshing and refreshing his private Soulmate Mark profile page. Each and every time, there’s nothing new from Dr. Ross’ office. Nothing new at all. How long is it going to take for them to find his match…? 

A knock sounds on his bedroom door and Grandma appears. Sam can’t tell if she’s smiling or wincing at him. “Mornin’, baby. Had a feeling you’d be up at this hour.” 

Sam swivels around in his computer chair. “Hi, Gran. I’m…I’m okay.” 

“No, you’re not. And it’s okay to not be okay. You’re dealing with some tough news right now when it would actually be exciting any other time. And I’m sorry ‘bout that, baby boy. I am. Riley’s here. How ‘bout you two go for a morning jog, then come back in and have breakfast?” 

Riley steps in beside Grandma and waves at Sam. “C’mon, loser. We’re gonna go around the whole neighborhood this time.” 

“I think I’ll leave you boys to get ready. Be back in here by nine o’clock for breakfast now, you hear? And be safe-take your phones and stay together. Ya’ll call me at once if you fall out or something else, understand?” 

“Yes ma’am, we will”, Sam and Riley chorus together. 

“Good. Alright, I’ll leave ya’ll now.” Grandma gently ushers Riley into the Sam’s bedroom and closes the door behind her. 

Both boys wait to speak until they can no longer hear her steps down the stairs. 

Riley plops down on Sam’s bed, already dressed in his running clothes-a plain white t-shirt, dark blue gym shorts and gym shoes. “Hey.” 

“Hey…Grandma already told you everything, didn’t she?” 

“Only that…you found out something really, really shitty to do with your Mark. The rest, she told me that I’ll have to find out from you.” Riley shifts to a more comfortable position on Sam’s bed. “But if you don’t want to talk about it now, I get it. Either way, we’re still going for a run together.” 

Sam smiles a smile with no humor in it. He’s still in his pajamas and the idea of getting up out of his chair, much less out of his room, sounds harder than it used to be. But with Riley beside him, he thinks he can do it. He takes a deep breath and briefly fills Riley in. When he’s finished, his best friend is nodding slowly and his eyes are searching Sam’s face. 

When Riley next speaks, his voice is quiet and way too damned intuitive. “…And you’re getting torn up inside because you want to think that it was your fault. That you did something and they…didn’t wanna be with your sorry ass so bad that now you two have to give it another try in a whole new life.” 

“Wouldn’t _you_ be worried about that?” 

“Well, yeah. Because I’m me-I’m Riley. But you’re Sam Wilson and, though it pains me to say it, I can’t think of a better catch on this side of the world’s hemisphere than you.” 

“Oh yeah? Did it pain you that bad, Riley? Was it really just that bad to say?” 

“Hell yeah. Hurt like a bitch and it’s not even seven in the morning yet. We’re getting too old for this shit.” 

This prompts light laughter from Sam, though his smile is far from reaching his eyes. Riley takes what he can get, though. He wants his best friend to feel better, even if it’s marginally so. Riley’s never quit at anything and he sure as hell isn’t quitting on his very own Sam any time soon. He stands up and offers Sam a hand. “But I get it. I really do. In the meantime, let’s keep you as healthy as possible with a little jogging and some fresh air. You deserve it.” 

Sam looks at Riley’s pale, outstretched hand and takes several deep, shuddering breaths. He finally lets himself be pulled up. Soon enough, they’re jogging together around their favorite streets.

More than usual, the sound of Sam’s feet hitting the pavement resonates with him. As the sun rises higher and higher in the sky, he squints to the point where Riley, breathless, asks if he wants to turn back home to get some sunglasses. Sam shakes his head ‘no’ and they keep on. It’s partially his fault, because he can’t seem to stop glancing up at the sun, as though…as though he’s waiting for it to be something else. The sunlight flickers and hides and dips and dances as it moves to get higher than all the houses and trees on the block. It’s something else; it looks like something else, feels like something else.

Something that he can’t quite place, but something that goes so, so well with hitting the pavement.

Lights and a sidewalk.

-

Steve’s pillowcase is nearly soaked through.

He stopped trying to wipe away at the endless stream of tears and snot several hours ago. It was a futile exercise. 

He hasn’t turned off his beside lamp. All night, he held up his scar-his _scar_ -to the light, turning it this way and that. Steve’s eyes have always been sharp, but even they have difficulty making out the thin, faint lines of his soon-to-be-Mark. A straight line here, an angled line there, a curved line over here, and two more tiny lines formed in the hours he’s been searching…

But there’s still no way to make out a distinctive shape to take back to Dr. Fury. There’s nothing to tell other than the fact that he has a Mark at all and, when some godforsaken supernatural schedule deems it the right time, that Mark will come out over his scar. 

Because he’s a reincarnated cut. 

All night Steve could think of nothing but apologizing to his Soulmate. When he finds them, whatever it was-whatever it _is_ -whatever happened or didn’t happen, could’ve almost happened but ultimately didn’t happen, Steve is going to apologize to them. He’s going to let them know that he never wanted to leave them, to literally cut himself off from them. Not for a goddamned second. He’s going to drill it into their heads until there’s no possible room for doubt and then he’s going to make it up to them in any way he can. 

As far as Steve can remember, he has yet to actually have dreams. 

But as his Mark takes more and more shape over his scar, he swears he can _feel_ the warmth of the other person’s life. He doesn’t know if it’s the feeling he felt for them in their past lives or the feeling of just their existence in this present day, but it’s _there_. It’s there and it’s warm and real and constant in the back of his mind. Steve reaches for them. He reaches so, so far, but he can never stretch enough. They’re there and then they’re gone, as quickly as a flash of a bright shadow at the edge of his eye, at the edge of his consciousness. Steve doesn’t want to wait for time to make it more clear-time can go fuck itself. He wants his Soulmate and he wants them _yesterday_. 

He only barely registers the thin, but muscled, arm sliding over his waist from behind and the body connected to it making the bed dip with its weight. He already knows who it is before they speak. 

“Whatever it was, it didn’t have anything to do with you personally, Rogers. It wasn’t your fault”, Natasha comforts. 

Steve sniffles and turns just enough that he can make out one of his very best friend’s dark red hair. His throat is scratchy as hell and his eyes are bleary as they struggle to focus on her. “You don’t know that. And I thought we-” He cuts himself off as he swallows snot. “-established that you need to stop climbing through my damn window like a wraith. You might not freak my mama out, but it’s still considered bad manners.” 

“I don’t know that any more than you do, technically. But if you were anything like you are now back then, there’s no way in hell you’d abandon your Soulmate. It had to be something else. Something you both couldn’t help.” Natasha smoothly ignores the latter part of her best friend’s statement and gently tightens her grip around his waist. 

“So what. The only thing that matters is that I owe them an apology”, Steve replies. He doesn’t bother asking how she knows what happened when he hadn’t even called her with the news yet; so long as he told Bucky (which he did, last night), so that meant he told Natasha and now Natasha knows. Steve is just fine with that, actually-he doesn’t think he can bear repeating what happened, even once. 

He turns around in Natasha’s arm to face her. She’s in one of Bucky’s black muscle shirts and a pair of Steve’s raggedly-beloved sweatpants. A pair of pink flip flops (only Natasha Romanoff could scale trees and a window in flip flops) adorns her feet. Her red hair is mussed, like she just climbed out of her own bed and decided to invade his bedroom on a whim, which wouldn’t make it the first time. Her green eyes bore right into his blue ones with more intuition and truth than any human being has a right to possess. 

“Okay. Let’s say you do owe them an apology. But what now? You can’t speed up your Mark’s reformation and you can’t make any dreams you have-whether you’re awake or not while they happen-become clear. So how about, for now, you just think of ways you’re going to say you’re sorry?” 

She keeps her arm around his waist and Steve is thankful for the continued comfort. He scoots closer and lightly bops her on the nose. In response, she crosses her eyes at the point where his finger touches the top of her nose, prompting a tiny bit of laughter from him. 

“But…what if they don’t…accept the way I say it? Besides, you know there are just some things…that you can’t forgive. What if it’s something like that?” 

“Then all the better for you to think up of as many ways to apologize as you can. An apology isn’t an expectation of forgiveness and to be told that whatever you did was okay, Rogers. You apologize to acknowledge that you understand you wronged them and you’re not going to wrong them that way ever again. So whether or not you did something that’s unforgiveable…that shit’s irrelevant. So you can tell them you’re sorry anyway. You got it?” 

She’s right. He faintly registers the sound of his unwashed bedhead moving against his pillow as he nods. “I…got it. Thanks, Nat.” 

She smiles softly at him, then reaches into her pocket to pull out…tissues. “Good. Great. Wonderful. Now take these…” She stuffs the tissues into his snot-and-tear-covered hand, “…And wash yourself up. We’re going with T’Challa to get donuts and we’re bringing some back to surprise your mom, too.” 

Steve obnoxiously blows his nose, then asks, “Can I call all the caramel-covered ones?” 

“Sure, but that leaves at least half of the strawberry ones to me and the stuffed ones to T’Challa. Pick your battles, Rogers. S’all I’m saying.” 

Steve smiles and finishes washing his face. 

-

Sam and Steve wait. 

There isn’t anything to do but wait. 

Wait and dream. Even when they are awake, they dream. 

They dream and dream and _dream_...


	2. Chapter 2

**East Harlem, New York, 1937**

“Look at it, sweetheart”, Darlene Wilson says, “A brand new, fresh start right here.” She gently rubs her son’s upper arm in comfort. 

Sam’s father, Paul Wilson, shuffles a few of their boxes around the tiny living room. His low, booming voice adds, “Yep. Some good fertile ground for Negroes up here, they say. They don’ call this the Black Mecca for nothin’, huh boy?” He comes up to heartily clasp his son’s other shoulder. 

Sam Wilson looks around their bare, diminutive apartment. It’s just a tad bigger than their apartment back in D.C. Every other square feet or so of wall sports a crack, a peeling of plaster, a hard water stain. The ceiling lights, while casting a relatively warm glow, dim every now and then. Splashes of natural light cheer up the cramped home from the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows.

Once immediately in the front door, there’s a foyer two-stained-floor tiles wide where one can hang their coats, hats and umbrellas. To the right, a living room doubles as a dining room. It’s easy to see where the table should be from the permanent stains in the faded, threadbare carpet. Two windows in the rest of the living-and-dining room look out onto the bustling, crowded streets three stories below. The kitchen is comprised of a sink, a refrigerator, a grey stove, two counters, and three overhead cabinets. Its tile floor is even more stained than the dining room carpet. 

To the left, two doors lead to the bedrooms and one to the bathroom. The one closest to the door is the smallest bedroom and the one that Sam will take. Its faded carpet is just slightly plusher than the living/dining room. There’s a bed (with a thin mattress that’s thankfully unstained and doesn’t have sharp springs sticking out), a splintery dresser, a teeny closet, a desk, and a window. His parents’ bedroom holds much the same amenities. 

The bathroom is a cramped whitewashed room with a sink caked in hard water stains, a bathtub with just as much hard water stain and a toilet that requires flushing twice. 

Not too much difference than back home. 

Not too much difference at all. 

Sam can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not, if he likes that or not. But, still, he responds to his parents in what he hopes is a relatively optimistic voice, “Yeah…yeah. Black Mecca right here.” 

Neither one of them are fooled. Mama rubs his shoulder once more and Daddy claps his shoulder once more. 

Mama sighs, “Well, baby, let’s get this place lookin’ like a home. Ain’ gon’ happen with us jus’ standin’ here all day.” 

Daddy agrees, “Yep. Let’s get to it.” 

They do. 

And once they do, Sam starts to see the place. 

Daddy gets their one loveseat sofa, one armchair and one TV set up and Sam can see Mama reading the Pittsburgh Courier for the latest activism ( _Yeah, fight’s still goin’ strong ‘gainst Amos ’n Andy, thank the Lord._ ) and entertainment ( _That’s my Lady Day!_ ) in her beloved armchair. Daddy working on a forty as his eyebrow goes up and up at FDR’s speeches ( _Negroes know you redlined the shit out of us, you two-timin’, lyin’ piece of shit._ ). 

In the kitchen he can see Mama frying up the chitlins, Daddy adding vinegar to the collards. In the bedroom he can see Mama working the phone for the next protests, church gatherings and the like, Daddy marking and scribbling on papers for her.

Yeah, Sam starts to see. As he sees more and more, he imagines that maybe, just maybe, this supposed-Black Mecca they call Harlem can be home. 

It’s when Sam is carefully putting the plates and cups up in the cabinet that the knock comes. 

_One, two, three_ , a quick and gentle rapping. 

Mama calls out from stocking the bathroom, “Sam, honey? Couldja?” 

“Yes ma’am”, Sam calls out to his mother. He calls out to the door, “Coming!” 

And standing on Sam Wilson’s new threshold is one of the frailest eel he’s ever seen. 

Her satiny skin is a deep, deep sepia that sends gentle wafts of cocoa butter his way. Even under the dim lights of the hallway, her tight black curls give off a shine that sings Madame C.J Walker. Her eyes are painted with liner and the lashes are thick; their irises are an intense carnelian. She grins at him with wide, plump lips painted and lined in dark burgundy. A tight, plain yellow dress hugs her curvaceous figure and dips just enough to show her décolletage and plain cream pumps adorn her feet. 

Yes, she’s a frail eel. A very, very frail eel. 

And she knows that he’s looking at her and she doesn’t seem to mind a bit-if anything, she returns the once over, with lips upturned in approval. Caught by a feeling of shame and sheepishness, Sam ducks his head and averts his eyes. He tips a hat that’s not on his head. 

“Afternoon, ma’am.” 

That grin only gets bigger and she places her hands on her hips, cocks one hip, and leans against the doorway. “Afternoon to you too, sir. I’m Monica Lynne. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine. I’m Sam Wilson.” Sam embarrasses himself by tipping the hat that’s not on his head again. Damn. 

Ms. Lynne is either gracious enough to pretend not to notice or she thinks the gesture is cute because she’s still smiling at him. 

“So I take it you’re my new neighbor?”

Sam can’t tell if he should relax or tense. It seems like he can’t tell the proper reaction to a lot of things nowadays. “Yes ma’am. I believe so.” 

“Nice! I’m actually right next door to you!” Monica starts to look a little hesitant. “I…spied you from my window when you and your family were unpacking your things from the street. You all just looked not, uhh…too happy to be here so I thought I’d pop over. So…hey. Really nice to meet you.” 

Sam decides to go with relax. “Well, it’s mighty nice of you to pop over, Ms. Lynne.” 

“If it’s so nice of me, then you can do me a favor: call me ‘Monica’ ‘cause I’m sure I ain’t much older than you. Hell, I could probably even be younger.” Monica squints at him. “Wait, though…you one a’them that don’t deal in coal?”

Sam immediately shakes his head. “Oh, no! No ma’am! That ain’t a problem at all. You’re alright with me. You’re more than welcome with me. Way I treated you here? Way I’ll treat you all the time.”

“Would you…like to come in…?” Sam trails off as he looks behind him at the messiness of his home. 

Monica takes it in stride. She beams and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, no! I know you just moved in today! You’re all migrates, yeah? That’s like a lot of people ‘round here.”

“Uh huh. Straight from D.C.” 

Monica’s voice softens and her brow furrows in sympathy. “Ohh, ya’ll rushed up here from the South. Can’t really imagine the hell you been through.” 

Sam can only give a sad smile in return, already sensing a potential friend in Monica. Before he can respond, Mama and Daddy come to the living/dining room and call out to their son. 

“Who is it, Sam?” 

“Honey, why you ain’t invited them inside yet?” 

Upon catching sight of Monica, their eyes widen and they rush over. 

Mama pulls her inside and reprimands her son. “Samuel Wilson. No child of mine talks to a woman while leaving her out in the hallway.” She smiles at Monica. “Please come inside. You like tea? Lemonade? Hope you can ‘scuse the mess, honey.”

Monica beams and looks around their place like it’s a grand ol’ palace. “I can’t stay too long, but may I take you up on that lemonade, Mrs. Wilson?” 

Daddy gently shoves his shoulder. “Wrong with you? We got seats.” 

“Guess I…got caught off guard.” Sam winces. 

Daddy just gives him that lopsided smile that tells him Daddy is feeling just a little better. Yeah, just a bit better. They used to always have friendly company back home. Even when the house was a bit of a mess (nowhere near like now, while they’re in the process of moving in), people were over the Wilson’s house. With all of them sipping Daddy’s homemade lemonade and Monica sitting demurely on Mama’s armchair, it almost feels like home again. 

Almost. 

Monica Lynne’s short visit is a much, much needed break from the unpacking. The Wilsons learn that she’s a small time jazz singer that frequents the Silver Curtain Club, working on her way to bigger stages. She lives with her man, Luke Charles (whom she refers to as just “Charles”), and he too has a job that he loves in teaching arithmetic and science in the Tenderloin. Monica and Charles share a Mark and a strong Bond, just like Sam’s parents. 

They literally do live right next door and right now in the afternoon, Charles is at work and she decided to come over and say hello. Around a second glass of lemonade, she assures them that, though they feel it, they are not alone; they are among hundreds of thousands of migrating Negroes that have fled to Harlem and they’re at home here, with their people. The Bales, Stansons, Michaels and Lupans are all migrants as well, and they are but a few examples. She tactfully doesn’t ask too much about their lives. 

At Mama’s request, she explains and writes them directions for all the necessary places. Grocery stores, laundromats, pharmacies, post office, and the like. But soon it’s time for the Wilson family to resume unpacking and they exchange numbers before saying goodbye. They insist that Monica visit again, next time with her Charles and during dinnertime too and Monica heartily agrees. 

Sam shows her to the door and says, “Thanks for stopping by. Nice to meet you.” 

“And it’s nice to meet you all too! Very nice!” Monica steps onto the threshold, but seems to remember something. “Oh! I wanted to ask you: you wanna come out with me and my crew sometime? We’d love to have you with us!” 

Sam blinks, caught off guard yet again. “Uhh…I…I’d love to, but I don’t have much mon-”

“He’d love to, so he’s going”, Daddy cuts in. 

Sam winces as Monica beams. “But D-Daddy-”

His father holds up a hand to halt his protests. “Your mother and I are sick of your damn moping and quieting boy. You’ll go. You need to be makin’ new friends anyway, ‘specially of your age. Imma put the money in your hands and you ain’t comin’ back home unless a bunch of crazed ofays are after you, hear?” 

Monica chortles as Sam nods. “Yes sir…” 

Daddy nods. “Good.” He turns to Monica. “Been real nice meeting you, Ms. Lynne. Real nice.” He goes back into the apartment. 

Sam turns back to Monica. “I…guess I’m stuck with you and your friends for a weekend or two, huh?” 

Monica winks. “Yeah, I guess you are, Sam. Guess you are. I should tell you all who usually comes with us.” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “Of course, there’s my Charles and me.” 

Sam nods-he’s been curious to meet Charles for a good while now. 

Monica continues ticking off on her fingers. “And my girl Maria is comin’ too. Then there’s James-he’s one of the biggest sweethearts you’ll ever meet. And, uhh…the other James and Stevie.” 

“The ‘other James and Stevie’? Something…wrong with them?” Sam tilts his head in curiosity, picking up a hesitance in Monica’s tone for once. 

For the first time since he’s met her, Monica looks sheepish. “Well, see, the other James and Stevie are both a Mister Charlie. Safe, though. From the Tenderloin. You alright with that?” 

Sam just stares at Monica for a long, long time. “Are either of them…Marked?” 

“Just James-by the way, go ‘head and call him ‘Bucky’. With a White lady, Natalie. We don’t see her much-she works around for some kind of government mess. Don’t bother us none that we know of. And Stevie…well, we don’t think he’ll ever get a Mark and he don’t really want one either.” 

Sam considers, pursing his lips and looking from right to left before looking back at Monica. “Well…alright. That’s okay. But I, uh…don’t really have any clothes for your nightlife around here. I don’t-”

“Oh, please! Ain’t nothing wrong with that! In fact…how ‘bout you come over next door this Friday? James usually comes to visit Charles ‘round the afternoon and then you can meet both a’them at the same time. And while you’re meeting them, they’ll get you fitted in some righteous rags for the nights, ‘kay?” 

Monica then squints at him and looks his body up and down. “Hmm…I think you’re closer to James’ size than my Charles. So when Charles and I next seem him, we’ll be sure to have him bring you some of his clothes to try on. And that’ll be your evening wardrobe for the meantime. Done deal, Sam?” 

“Ahh, I…don’t know ‘bout that. See, we don’t have much money to pay anyone back-”

“See, you pay us back by looking just as good as the rest of us while you have knock yourself out with the rest of us. You hear?” 

Sam stares open-mouthed at Monica for much, much longer than could ever be polite. And then he’s blinking away moisture from the sheer… _kindness_. A tiny part in the back of his mind wants to believe that this is all just a cruel, clique-inspired ruse. That this beautiful Black woman from this strange place called Harlem would welcome him into her group of friends with such open arms and…

“Yes, I hear. I hear you, ma’am. I’ll be there on Friday.” 

“Great! They’ll see you then, Sam! Can’t wait!” Monica briefly cups his jaw with her thumb and index finger, then leaves. 

Friday to get dressed, then the weekend to have fun. 

Sam can’t wait either. 

-

When Charles answers the door that Friday, Sam almost wonders if he done died and gone to heaven. 

Because _goddamn_ , the man is beautiful. 

His skin is rich, deeply burnished sienna with nary a blemish. Sam knows its good pomade oil he smells from the man’s closely trimmed black hair. A strong jaw peppered in light stubble frames lips so impossibly full that they may just crack the sky open when they smile. High, defined cheekbones and a strong nose have a pair of plain square glasses resting atop them. The glasses themselves aid eyes that are a deep, intense brown and exude intelligence. 

Monica Lynne’s man wears starched dark grey trousers held up by black suspenders and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. He wears white and grey socks. 

Monica Lynne is a lucky woman indeed. 

Sam clears his throat and tries to make an apologetic greeting. Charles beats him to it with a smile that says he’s completely undisturbed by Sam’s open appreciation. “Well for goodness’ sake, don’t stare so much that you don’t have any more eyes for the rest of the city. Believe it or not, I’m actually not even half of what’s offered and I’m both Marked and Bonded.” 

Somehow they both burst into snickers and then Sam is extending his hand. “Hah…Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you.” 

Charles gives his hand a hearty shake and pulls Sam into the apartment. “Luke Charles, but just ‘Charles’, as Monica certainly told you.”

There’s another Black man and Sam guesses who he is before Charles introduces him. “Sam, this is James. James, Sam-the man who’s going to be stealing your clothes for an indefinite period of time.” 

Sam does just a little better at not staring at James. The other man is wearing much the same outfit as Charles, though he wears no glasses, his trousers are darker and his button-down shirt is a light blue. His skin is a glowing dark chestnut and Sam smells pomade from his closely trimmed hair too. He turns around from setting different sets of clothing on the couches and chairs. His welcoming grin shows Sam a shock of straight white teeth. 

He comes forward to warmly shake Sam’s hand just as heartily as Charles did. “Heya. Ready to steal my clothes?” 

“Sure am. Prepare to never get them back.” 

All three of them dissolve into laughter.

-

Next Saturday evening comes faster than ever. Sam’s heart races when Monica and Charles come from next door to pick him up. 

Monica is downright resplendent in an off-the-shoulder, low cut fuchsia dress. Bright, cheap black beads hang low over her breasts and a bright pink boa is draped over her shoulders and tucked into the crook of her arms. Her high heels are a shiny black and open-toed. She wears her dark curls even more voluminous than when she visited the Wilson family. In her hair is a single feather, held in place a clip with a fake opal. Her makeup pops out her eyes, enlarges her lips and brightens her cheeks. 

Charles is painfully dapper in his mesmerizing cerulean zoot suit. His black undershirt is tucked into his loose, flaring pants. Shiny and just as blue as the rest of his outfit, his tie is in the Windsor knot. Over his shirt is a heavy coat, the shoulder pads of which accentuate the broadness of his back. The brim of his hat is wide, with a single, simple black band around it. His shoes are black, shiny and polished. A light, carefully trimmed stubble dusts his jaw and cheeks. 

Sam himself is dressed not unlike Charles. He wears one of James’ bright red zoot suit, complete with white pinstripes and a single white feather in the wide brim of his hat. Just the night before, Charles meticulously trimmed his goatee and James loaned him his favorite pomade oil-Dapper Dan. 

Monica gives him an approving once-over and asks, “How you feelin’, Sam?” 

“I feel great. Real, real great”, he answers honestly as he tips the stylish hat that is very much on his head. 

“You should, because you look great”, Charles offers. 

Monica bends her arms at the elbows and lifts them. “Well! Are two gentlemen gon’ escort a lady to a night of bailing or what?” 

Grinning, both Charles and Sam take an arm each and it’s off to pick up the rest of the crew. 

They get Monica’s girl, Maria Hill, first. She lives in just the next apartment complex. In this building, there’s about half-and-half of Negroes and Latinos. When Maria comes out, she’s just as radiant as Monica. The only main difference between their outfits is that Maria’s is a deep lavender and she wears a lavender cloche hat on her head, with just a few curls prettily peeking out of the edge. Her skin is a light, sandy brown flawlessly complemented by the purple of her clothing. Her eyes brighten upon seeing them and she speaks rapid Spanish to both Monica and Charles. Sam is mostly lost during that part of the conversation. 

Charles…introduces him in Spanish and Maria turns those bright, dark brown eyes on him and extends her hand. “Well hello there, Mr. Sam Wilson! Monica warned me that more than one thing was gon’ be easy on my eyes and…well, now I see, don’ I?” She winks at him. 

Sam decides that, by now, it’s more than safe to play and so he gives her a wink. “‘Spose it is, ma’am. Tonight must just be a lucky night.” 

He finds himself with Maria on his arm and Monica still on Charles’. 

Next is James. Conveniently, he only lives on the floor above Maria’s. James is dressed in much the same way as Charles and Sam, but with a sharp red-and-blue color scheme. 

He takes one look at Sam, points at him, and declares, “Remember, friend. No matter how good you look, those rags are _stolen_. Get it? Your looks are _stolen goods_.” 

Sam and the rest of the group laugh. James kisses both Monica and Maria on their cheeks, clasps Charles in a tight hug, and then they’re all out of the apartment complex and onto the street. 

With a grin, Monica informs Sam, “Aight, it’s eats at my place at the Silver Curtain Club. But first we wait outside for our _darlin’_ Mister Charlies so they can join us. It’s a nice evenin’ to wait outside, I think, too.”

“Usually we wait inside, at our table”, Charles supplies. “But…we all think you’ll enjoy the sights, Sam.” 

“You sure will! Just keep steppin’ and we’re all bailin’, _bonito_!” Maria pipes up. 

Sam beams, feeling content to stay within the group. He appreciates how they mostly crowd around him, insulating him within their ranks. Initially, it was Monica and Charles at the front, arm-in-arm with James, Maria and Sam making up the rear with Maria between them. Maria moves up to take Charles’ other arm, leaving James and Sam alone. 

Sam tries very, very hard not to be surprised when James casually loops his arm through Sam’s. They continue walking like nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. 

He presses closer to James and whispers, “Is this…really just fine up here? I mean, I ain’t…I ain’t sayin’ that people weren’t like this back home in D.C. Just, you know…not, like…out on the street.” 

James smiles at him. “Oh, yeah this is just fine. Unless you feel uncomfortable?” He loosens his hold on Sam’s arm. 

“Oh no, this is alright! Real comfortable actually”, Sam says truthfully. He brings James’ arm back closer and walks closer. “Just…you sure it’s alright here?” 

“I take it you don’t get much cause for righteous rags down where you came from, huh? Feelin’…ostentatious?” 

Sam looks down at himself. His suit really _is_ a bright red and white and it only stands out in addition to the bright, flashy coloring of the rest of their group. “ _Yes_. I am feeling that exactly. I mean, I feel…I do feel great, but at the same time…where I’m from, Negroes just didn’t walk around like this. Especially when we didn’t have money.” 

James’ smile is sympathetic. “Oh, I hear you. I do. But I promise you’re more than fine up here.” He jerks his chin forward. “Just take a look ‘round you.” 

Sam does. 

By far, he and James are not the only same-gender partners strolling around arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand. Not too unlike the parts of D.C he grew up in, Sam is surrounded by a comforting sea of black and brown faces. Three black women stroll arm-in-arm into a hair salon, loudly laughing at something the middle one said. A duo composed of one Black man and one Italian man in tuxedos with bow ties head to what looks like a dance hall. As they walk, they swing their joined hands in-between their bodies and one of them kisses the other. And there are even more large groups like the one Sam finds himself in. A great many of them are loud, laughing and jeering. They playfully shove each other, some steal kisses and still others continue looping arms and holding hands. 

And with the sea of black and brown is the sea of colorful clothing and accessories. Sam’s never seen so many different, near-blinding colors on people in one sitting. Forest green and red-orange and cobalt blue and dark pink…all just synthesize into even more beauty before Sam’s eyes. People wear more feathers and pearls and gemstones and beads (half of which of possibly fake, but still no-less beautiful) in on their person than Sam thought possible. Many men’s hats are wide-brimmed like those of Sam’s and his new crew. Of those that don’t wear hats, their hair is usually slicked back and shiny with pomade oil. Many women wear their hair in so many ways that it’s nearly impossible to keep up. Some of them sport the same huge mass of shiny curls as Monica does and even more sport a feather or more and/or headband. Others wear ornate cloche hats like Maria. 

As Sam’s group passes through the pleasantly overwhelming streets on their way to the Silver Curtain Club, several men tip their hats and wink at them all. More than one woman openly appreciates Sam, James and Charles. Sam follows Charles and James’ leads by tipping the hat that is very much on his head and returning winks and smiles. 

They are in the very heart of 126th Street, Harlem. 

A particularly frail eel, a Black woman with wine-red lipstick and a whole case of feathers in her hair, gives Sam a long, slow wink with a smile as she passes by. Sam, in turn, gives her a long, slow tip of his hat with a smile. 

She blows him a kiss and he’s left reeling. 

Beside him, James is chuckling lowly. Sam whispers worriedly, “Am I doin’ this right?” 

Between chuckles, James gasps, “You’re doin’ just _great_ , man. Just great. You are a natural already.” 

“But…but why are so many of them lookin’ at me? Can they tell I’m new?” 

“Nope. Prolly not. You just look good, that’s all.” James pats Sam’s hand, the one that’s nestled in the crook of James’ arm. “And keep in my mind-you’re not the only Russian ‘round here. Prolly half the people here are just like you and they found a good group of friends to help them, just like you too. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout. Just keep on steppin’ and enjoy yourself. We’re almost to Monica’s club, by the way.” 

“You certainly know your way around here, James.” Sam gives him a side smile full of relief. 

James winks and pats Sam’s hand again. “Ahh, only comes from livin’ up in this Black Mecca for a while. Nothin’ new and nothin’ special.” 

Slightly up ahead, the rest of the group bursts into raucous laughter at something Charles says. Monica laughs with everything she has-head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth wide open as she lets the whole world know that she’s amused. Maria is a tinkling combination of chortling and giggling, not unlike an elegant chandelier and in the next second she’s saying hello to another group passing by. And Charles conveniently looks like he just doesn’t understand what he said that’s so hilarious. Sam has a feeling this happens a lot and he feels even more at home. 

He squeezes James’ arm, “You’ve been arm-in-arm with a lot of fellas, huh? ‘Cause you’re real good at this. Like, you know…good at making me comfy.” 

James chuckles and returns the warm squeeze. “Hah. Good that you’re comfy, Sam. Real, real good-that’s the point of this night, you know. Get you integrated into the crew, into the scene. Make sure you know you’re at home with your people up here.” He rolls his right shoulder. “But…no. Not a whole lot of fellas under my belt. Just one or two.” 

“Ohh…” Curiosity piqued, Sam looks around them, but…there is no one to come to specifically say hello to James. No one to come and take James’ free arm. “Anyone around here tonight, maybe? Are they gonna meet us?” 

A look of raw, devastating _pain_ flashes across the other man’s face at the inquiry. So intense is the look that Sam shrinks back like he just accidentally burned James with his mere presence. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean-”

James blinks several times and Sam can’t tell if it’s to dispel tears or to get his bearings back. Probably both. “No. No, it’s…it’s just over. I…they had to leave for a while, is all. They…I’m sure I’ll see ‘em again. Someday. In the meantime, it just…it’s over.” 

“Aww, I’m really sorry James. I-”

James pats his hand and somehow gives him a smile that’s genuine in its warmth. “I know you didn’t, Sam. You ain’t that kinda guy. You didn’t know and…it was a long time ago, either way. It’s okay. Really.”

Sam tactfully drops it and changes the subject. “Good eats at the Silver Curtain, right? I bet it’s gonna be delicious.” 

James smoothly jumps on the subject change, his face and posture right back to normal. “Yep. Gonna collor a hot and maybe sing an’ dance a little. It’s Monica’s night off, but she loves that stage and we all love to watch her. ‘Specially Charles.” 

“Does Maria sing?” 

“Sometimes. But she’s more a pianist than a singer...and speaking of ‘there’, we’re here. Welcome to the Silver Curtain, Sam!” James makes a grand, sweeping gesture with his arm at the building that’s damn near dominating the block with its sheer flashiness. 

Sam looks up in captivated awe. 

The illustrious nightclub is a two-story building whose bricks are a deep, deep burgundy and wine. The sign that designates the club’s name- _The Silver Curtain_ -is in elegant cursive and lit in impossibly bright neon blue. Alongside the building’s corners are just as brightly-lit bulbs that blink rhythmically, further illuminating the already bright, bright streets of 126th. Wide, granite steps lead up to the club’s huge double doors, which are attended to by three ushers. 

And this part of 126th Street is _crowded_ ; people stop here to loudly and enthusiastically mill and mingle about. Some go right inside, but most stay outside, their flamboyant clothing and accessories once again entrancing Sam’s gaze. The scents of pomade oils and perfumes and colognes and sweat and pure, high adrenaline coalesce even stronger here, on this particular part of the sidewalk. The crowd is, thankfully again, a sea of black and brown with just a trickle of white. It’s louder here, too, where the people talk to, over, and around each other. Sam’s group mingles with the rest of the people and they graciously introduce him to everyone they speak to. Sam is grateful that, for the most part, they all make yet another insulating circle around him. But, at the same time, he’s a bit self-conscious that he can barely remember so many faces and names. Monica and Maria are especially popular and well-received by the crowd. Sam clings just a little harder to James’ arm. 

James squeezes his arm back and speaks in his ear, “Lotsa people just like to stay outside and it, well…kinda looks nice, I guess you would say. Like to show off their righteous rags and see their friends before they sit down inside.” 

“And are you sure they can’t tell I’m a Russian?”

“If they can, I don’t think they mind in the least. Like I said, you’re one of many. Ain’t no difference here-you’re home here.” 

“We’re waitin’ out here for Stevie an’ Bucky too though, right?” 

“Uh huh. They usually come over from the other side of the street”, James says, nodding to the opposite sidewalk, “And we mingle ‘round outside with them, just like this, then we go inside and collor ourselves a nice meal inside. You’ll see.” 

Sam’s hands tremble just a bit as he asks, “And Bucky an’ Stevie aren’t…?”

James gives him yet another reassuring smile, already understanding his question. “Nope.” He thinks for a moment. “Well, lemme put it this way: if they _are_ some crazy ass crackers, they’re the nicest, most aware crazy ass crackers you’ll ever meet.” 

Sam’s eyes round and then he’s pulling his hat over his face in a futile attempt to stifle his laughter. When he can finally breathe, he says, “G-good to know. Mighty good t’know.” 

James grins and they mingle some more. 

From within the club, Sam can hear sweet, sweet jazz music and smell painfully delicious food wafting to the outside. 

Even from where he stands, Sam can pick out svelte, flawless weaving of saxophones, pianos, drums and horns in and out of each other. Just in and out. Back home, he only ever heard jazz on the radio or saw it being played on TV. The idea of being able to actually see it live, in real time…

When he still doesn’t see Bucky and Stevie across the street, excitement renders just a tad of impatience. He turns to James and says, “I think I’m gonna walk around for a while. Just explore a little.” 

James looks a bit worried and replies, “Want me to come with you?” 

“Naw, I think I can find my way back if I don’t go too far.” 

James nods and obligingly and lets go of Sam’s arm. “Go ‘head and just holler if you get lost, though. We’ll come and find you.”

“Will do!”

Sam turns to the rest of the group and announces his little solo-exploration. They chorus James’ worry and caution, with promises to find him. And Sam is setting out on his own, away from the crowded sidewalk hosting the Silver Curtain Club. 

Around, above and alongside all the people and all the cars and all the sounds and all the scents…are the lights of Harlem. 

The lights. 

Sam finds himself having to walk slowly as his eyes lift from looking at where he’s going to looking at all the beautiful, mesmerizing lights. Never in his life had he seen so, so many city lights in one place. They glow so vibrantly that Sam can’t quite see if there are any stars in the sky tonight. They come from everywhere-the Apollo Theater, the Hennessy Ballroom, this clothing store, that restaurant, another ballroom. Wistfully, he wonders just what he’ll be able to hold in his hands if he could pluck a light to hold. Just one light, to hold and examine…he wonders what he would see, what he would feel. Onto the sea of people just like and unlike Sam and everything else, they splash illumination on. Sometimes blue and green here, but mostly white and gold everywhere. A great many of them flicker and blink…flicker and blink…

Flicker and blink…flicker and blink…

The lights. 

So deep into his awed daze that Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when a deep, quiet voice says, “On your left.” 

Sam’s head whips around to his left. His dark brown eyes look down and lock with bright blue ones…

…And the Harlem lights feel all the brighter. 

The person beside him is short, only coming up to Sam’s chest. He’s White and wears a simple, three-piece suit. His plain black blazer is starched and left open, showing his white undershirt and black tie underneath. Just as high-waisted and baggy as Sam’s, his trousers have his shirt tucked in perfectly. His shoes are black and polished to the point that the lights shine brightly them. Under the clothes, Sam can see his frame is very, very slight. He wears no hat, and his mop of blond hair ends in messy bangs swept to the right. 

And his eyes…his eyes are a clear sky blue that looks right back at Sam. They look with a depth that sends Sam’s heart fluttering, his palms sweating and his mouth drying. 

Unable, certainly not for the first time since coming here, to form a coherent sentence, Sam just grins. The person’s eyes light up and they grin back. Sam grins wider; they grin wider. They grin and grin until their smiles become beams and they’re standing on the sidewalk, just beaming at each other. The other person’s eyes light up just once more, and then they duck their heads down before looking back up at Sam through impossibly long, dirty blond lashes. 

And he swears that all the Harlem lights have coalesced until they’re here. Right here, right between the two of them. Forget the street lights, the building signs, the café windows, the honking cars…every single last Harlem light is _here_. 

_Here._

Sam finally finds his voice, the smile still threatening to split his own face. “I’m Sam. Sam Wilson.” 

The other person scuffs the tip of their shoe against the pavement. “I’m Steve Rogers. But you probably heard of me as ‘Stevie’, huh?” 

Ahh. 

“Well, yeah, I did. Are you…with Bucky?” 

“Yep. He’s already with the rest of the crew, though. I take it you wandered off a bit and got a little lost?” 

Sam doesn’t even bother looking at his surroundings before he answers, “What would you do if I said ‘yes’ to that? You gonna judge me?” 

“Nope. I get lost a good bit, too. It’s a beautiful place ‘round here. Can be hard t‘preciate it if you don’t wander off and jus’ look around from time to time.” 

“Yeah, I think so too.” 

“I’m glad you do, sir. Real glad you do.” 

“Uh, ‘Sam’ is just fine…Steve.” 

“‘Sam’, then.” 

More looking. More smiling. 

Sam’s the first to break the comfortable silence. “You know, wandering around here is real, real good. But I think we’re on a bit of a schedule tonight. So how ‘bout you lead me back to the crew?”  
Those sky blues shimmer and Steve lifts his arm for Sam to take. “It’d be my honor, Sam.” 

Because Steve is shorter, it’s just a bit awkward for Sam to loop his arm through Steve’s and walk that way. But they’ve both never felt more comfortable. 

When they get back to the group, Sam spots Bucky’s pale face easily. He’s dressed not all that differently from Steve, though his three-piece is a light grey and his brunette hair is slicked back with a strand or two in front of his forehead. He too, wears no hat. He takes one look at Sam and warmly embraces him. Sam, with a slight surprise, hugs him back.

And then the crew is following Monica (who’s pleasantly swamped by fellow patrons congratulating and remarking on her last performance; Charles graciously helps steer her away so they can actually get to their table) into the club and Sam swears he’s not too sure how much more of Harlem’s beauty he can take. Both the sound of jazz and scent of food wafts much, much stronger. The inside of the Silver Curtain Club is stunning and is, in fact, not silver at all. The floor is an impossibly polished, shiny wood that Sam can see his reflection in. The walls and tall, tall pillars are golden and bathed in the bright, twinkling lights of the chandeliers above to the point where they seem to shimmer and move before Sam’s eyes. As they exit the main foyer, everywhere Sam’s eyes look are round tables covered in ocean blue table cloths, lit with their own lamps in the center and they are already set for their patrons. 

The second floor is nothing but splendid, ornate balconies from which a great many people lean over to watch the happenings below. Sam can see there’s just as many tables on that second floor as there are on the first floor. He adjusts his suit as he struggles not to ask if they’re going to go up to the second floor. His heart pounds as, indeed, Monica leads them all up the stairs. Sam does his best not to run and yelp and hoop and holler like an excited little kid, but his excitement must have shown through because Maria and Bucky turn to give him one of those friendly, knowing winks. 

As soon as they ascend, Sam gets a bird’s eye view of the whole of the club. There are even more tables than he thought and it’s so full and thriving and loud with so, so many people. James takes his arm again and they both know it’s so he doesn’t bump into something (or, more embarrassingly, someone) while he look all around. From both the first and second floor, he spots a huge dancing area with couples of all shades. He squints as he notices that, in fact, the same couples are more than comfortable and allowed to sit back down at the same tables. 

And what the couples are merrily dancing to is a jazz ensemble stationed toward the front of the club. Sam watches, awestruck, as the band simply _kills_ it. They are an all-Black male group consisting of one grand piano player, one drummer, three saxophone players and two trumpet players. As they fill the establishment with their upbeat sound, they smile and all but dance in place themselves. Sam finds himself bopping his head to the catchy tune, like several other people.

Monica’s voice breaks through his newly-dazed state. “Sam, you sit here, now. So you can see everything. You get the queen’s chair for the night.” 

Sam finally looks right in front of them and finds that they’ve reached a table with seven places set. “Oh, you mean your chair? But…” 

“It’s fine, baby. It’s fine. The queen can designate a substitute into her chair every now and then. So g’on and sit! I insist!” 

He obliges Monica by sitting in the chair that gives the very best view of entirety of the club. On his right is Maria, who sits beside James, and then it’s Bucky, Charles, Monica, and ending with Steve finally on Sam’s left side. 

As their server comes to start them on drinks and appetizers and hand them menus, Sam remarks to Maria, “So I take you all don’t frequent the Cotton Club?” He watches the interracial couples continue to freely dance and eat together. 

Maria snorts and touches up her lipstick. “Hell no. Fuck the Cotton Club and every place like it. Monica and I don’t even perform at places like that. Means there’s not as much bankroll to come in, but fuck that and them.” 

“More places like this, then?” 

“Oh yeah! You should see the Hennessy Ballroom sometime, too!” She puts away her lipstick and compact and grins at him. “But-and you didn’t hear this from me-for now, I think we’ll just get you started on clubbing properly.” 

Sam beams at that. He’s about to take his hat off when he looks all around and, in fact, sees that just about everyone else still has their hats on, save for some people dancing. Hell, people even leave their blazers, suits, boas and the like on. 

And he’s hyper aware of Steve sitting on his left. 

The scent of delicious food making his stomach growl, Sam follows his crew’s lead and opens his menu. Maria leans over and asks, “Whatchu like, hon? I can help you find what you’re looking for faster.” 

“Umm…” Sam frowns as he peruses the menu, and then asks, “Ya’ll got fried chicken up here, or no?” 

The whole table goes silent. Six pairs of eyes bore holes into his head. 

Monica is the first to speak, her expression both stern and incredulous. “…You come into our house and ask us if we got fried chicken? You do us like that, Sam Wilson?” 

Charles clears his throat and adjusts his suit. “Well, then. It’s been fun, but I vote that we now cast Sam Wilson out of our crew, regardless of the fact that it’s his first night with us.” 

“Actually”, Steve pipes up in Sam’s defense, “I think we should just cast you and Bucky out, Charles. Since you two can’t be bothered to let someone else win a fucking poker game for once.” 

“You know, that’s not a bad idea”, James agrees, “But I don’t think either one of them could handle that. Plus, I don’t know if the rest of us want to get in on their hundreds of dollars of debt to each other. Stevie, I think you’re just beatin’ up your gums there.” 

At this, Charles and Bucky share a glance and one of the most conspiracy-laced snickers Sam’s ever heard. Maria leans over and explains to Sam, “We all like to play poker every now and again. But these two fucks always win, with Charles having three wins so far over Bucky-”

“Hey!” Bucky cries indignantly. 

“-and the rest of us are just…there to watch, really. We watch and lose. Every fucking time”, Maria continues. 

“Exactly! What Maria said! I really think we should throw Charles and Buck out. Only solution to winnin’”, Steve insists. 

Charles and Bucky just snicker even harder. James shakes his head at the two and warns, “Naw, really. Steve is cracking, but he’s fracking. One day, ya’ll two are gonna lose to one of us, and then what?” 

After taking a breath, Charles answers, “Then I guess you’ll shoot me lightly and I’ll die politely.” 

“…Or not”, Bucky adds. The two men laugh again. 

“Okay, fine. Enough about the two douches of poker. Can we please focus on _this_ man that just asked if there’s fried chicken here?” Monica points at Sam, eyes feigning outrage. “Where’d you think you at?” 

Sam pretends to splutter, “Well…I _know_ I’m away from home, away from the South. Didn’ know how my skin folk eat up here.” 

“Oh, what? You think people forget where they come from? The food they come from?” Maria raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Or that we’re not just like you, at the end of the day? And if we _didn’t_ have fried chicken on the menu, what, you think we wouldn’t be able to whip it up anyway?” James adds. 

“See? Told you. He needs to go.” Charles repeats and takes a sip of his champagne. 

Sam straightens up in mock indignation and says, “I’d say that I’m mighty sorry to have offended anyone.” He closes his menu. “But from the way y’all are acting, I’d say you’re being defensive about _not_ having any fried chicken. Ya’ll gonna confess or no?” 

The table goes completely silent with six pairs of eyes boring into him again…

…And then there’s a raucous burst of laughter that makes more than a few patrons from other tables look at them. 

“This man…this man!” Monica gasps. “I love you already, baby! I do!” 

James gasps, “Just…just someone help him. Someone end this and…turn the goddamned _page_ in the menu so he can find it! Please!” 

Maria does the honors, opening up Sam’s menu and showing him, in fact, that the choice of fried chicken is right on the second page. “You’re horrible, you know that? You go’n make everyone at this table laugh ourselves out before the evening’s over!” 

“In his defense, he’s new here. He didn’ mean to kill us all”, Steve offers. 

Sam’s eyes meet Steve’s and they just grin and grin again at each other. 

“Shut up, Stevie. Nobody was askin’ you”, Bucky retorts. 

“Mm. Well, I think somebody _was_ askin’ somebody, but…I guess it’s polite to keep that unsaid for now”, Maria says, noting Sam and Steve’s eyes on each other. 

At that, Sam and Steve break away, both looking flustered and trying to stutter out an explanation. 

“It’s alright. You were just being Sam’s lawyer, Steve”, Charles comforts. 

“He presented your case to the courts finely”, James agrees. 

“Since when did a lawyer look at their client like they wanna give ‘em ground rations after they win the case?” Monica asks. 

A hot, hot blush spreads from Steve’s face and all the way up to his ears. “Ground rations, Monica? I didn’t mean…” 

“See? Told you”, Bucky says, nodding at Steve’s reddened face with his glass. “Ground rations. And I’m pretty sure Sam ain’t about our kind of color of ground rations, Stevie.” 

“Of course he’s not! He’s just…shit, he’s handsome, is all!” Steve grouses indignantly. 

Sam speaks up amid splutters and snickers. “Well, actually, umm…it’s alright.” He turns to Steve with a hesitant, but genuine smile. “Haven’t, uhh…had a whole lot of ground rations at all, really and I thank you mightily for the compliment. But…” He squints at Steve’s blond hair and blue eyes. “…you’re…not really any kind color of ground rations at all. So I might have to think on it for a minute.” 

At that, Steve’s eyes light up with laughter. “No, I guess I ain’t.” 

Their table is shrieking, with Maria damn near falling out of her chair. It’s Sam’s helpful hands that keep her upright. 

-

It’s about the fourth time that night that Sam lets out a yawn when Monica suggests, “Hey, Sam, I know you still must be tired from moving. How ‘bout we all head on home so you can get some sleep?” 

But Sam knows that he’s really the only one getting tired. It’s definitely a combination of recently moving all the way from Washington D.C to New York with not quite being used to staying out late…having fun like a young person’s supposed to, as Mama and Daddy say. 

Sam replies, “No, I’m a’ight. I don’t wanna ruin everyone else’s fun.” He stands up. “You guys just stay here an’ I’ll find my way home and see you guys later. I thank you all for inviting me.” 

“But someone has to show you were _tu casa_ is, Sammy, or you might get lost. And you don’t want to get lost around these streets, much less on your own at this time of night”, Maria worries. 

“She’s right. Let one of us walk you home. You live in the same apartment as Monica and me anyway”, Charles agrees. 

Before Sam can protest again, Steve stands up too and says, “If you live where Monica and Charles live, then I know the way. I can take you if…if you don’t mind.” 

Sam’s heart races at the thought of Steve chivalrously escorting him home. He looks into those blue eyes and marvels at how they’re both sheepish and determined. Shy and bold. Scared and brave. Like…like Steve wants him to know that he _likes_ him and he’s _welcome_ , but…isn’t quite sure of his own welcome from Sam. 

Well, Sam ain’t never been a person to leave someone hanging and unsure like that. Maintaining eye contact with Steve, he consents. “Yeah. Sure you can walk me home. I’d appreciate it mightily. Thank you, Steve.”

Those blue eyes burst with pleasure like a supernova and, once again, the whole rest of the damn world falls away. “Pleasure’s all mine.” 

As they look at each other for what’s surely longer than politely necessary, Sam and Steve are vaguely aware that the rest of their crew is…pretending not to notice anything. Charles pushes his perfectly-positioned glasses on his nose. Maria dabs at her perfectly clean mouth with her napkin. Monica checks her perfectly poised curls in her compact mirror. James picks imaginary pieces of lint off his suit. Bucky tries to get an imaginary piece of food out of his teeth. 

All five of them do shit jobs at hiding knowing grins. 

Steve is the first one to break the charged silence. “Well, uhh…better go on an’ get you home, huh? Don’ want you to, you know, fall out in the middle of the street or anything.” 

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be too good. Prolly freak my parents out if that happened.” 

It’s a chorus of goodbyes, well-wishes, promises to be safe and promises to do this again. It’s a stuffy walk noted by more of Sam yawning through the club and then he and Steve are out on the still-brightly-lit streets. 

Though the lights haven’t dimmed by any stretch of the imagination, they can sense the coming of sunrise not too far off. After being inside for so long, the night air is cool and refreshing on their faces. Fewer people are on the streets and of what there are move slowly like Sam and Steve. A few of the shops, restaurants, ballrooms and the like appear to be closed or in the process of closing. Sam keeps close to Steve, somehow feeling just as safe with this small White boy in the wee, wee hours of morning as he does with an entire crew of new friends that look like him late at night. 

“Around this time, this is kind of the part where night life closes up and, uhh…people start gettin’ ready for work and shit. A lot of people don’t have…fancy shit to work at. You know, like at a newspaper or a secretary for some important ass. A lotta people are like Bucky an’ me-either in the factories or at the docks, or freelance work”, Steve quietly supplies. 

Sam nods. “Yeah. Monica finds pretty good work as a singer and Charles is a teacher. That’s not really a bankroll, but it sure is lucky compared to a lot of folks. I just hope my parents get a little something out here. Why we came here in the first place.” 

“Oh yeah. Monica and Charles are doing pretty good and so are Maria and James. Don’ tell ‘em I told you, but I’m thinkin’ that Charles is workin’ on helping you guys get on your feet.” 

Sam’s head whips around to stare at Steve, eyes wide in shock. “Wh-how…?” 

Steve gives a little smile big with warmth. “It’s hard out here. Charles especially knows a few people. Gotta look out for your own out here. They like you and your family. Nothin’ wrong with some help every now an’ then, yeah?” 

“But we don’t really have anything to pay them back wi-”

“Yeah you do. It’s called being a happy, healthy good friend. Try to pay them back with anything else, and you’re just gonna find it right back in your hands. Trust me, I know.” 

Sam nervously adjusts his tie. “Well…doesn’t mean I’m not at least gonna try. Jus’ the right thing to do.” 

Steve, still sporting that small smile, inclines his head. And they’re continuing their walk in companionable silence. Steve naturally walks slower and Sam thinks he can tell that part of the reason is because Steve’s spine isn’t exactly all that straight. Through Steve’s clothes, Sam can tell that his small, narrow shoulders are just a little uneven and there’s a scuffle to his slow step too. Sam quietly worries about what’s surely the pain and discomfort/inconvenience that it causes Steve. First this, then the asthma that was casually mentioned at dinner and now this and there has to be more that Steve struggles with. But Sam sensitively decides not to bring it up unless and until Steve does. 

Steve ain’t any less of a person deserving of autonomy than he is. 

“I know you’ll prolly insist that I don’t, but I just wanna say ‘thank you’ all again for…inviting me out and being my friends. Not…you know, you didn’t have to”, Sam says softly. 

“And I’d say ‘you’re welcome’ but, really, it was all our pleasure. My pleasure too”, Steve replies just as softly. 

Sam can’t quite pinpoint where the impulse came from, much less what makes him act on it. 

He loops his arm through Steve’s. 

Steve turns to look at him with rounded eyes. Sam gives a small shrug and quips, “You’re escorting me home, ain’t you? Just like you escorted me back to the crew earlier?” 

The smile that blossoms over Steve’s face might just be the very sun breaking through the night. “I guess I am, Sam Wilson…I guess I am.” He tightens his thin arm around Sam’s. 

As they continue walking, Sam gets a better recognition of the area. But he’s still unsure of where to go from here. Steve doesn’t hesitate for a moment; he easily leads Sam back to his apartment complex with nary a glance at the street signs. Sam’s eyes flutter and he yawns several more times. It’s more and more of an effort not to drag his feet. 

Steve gives him that smile when he yawns for the nth time, eyes watering with sleepiness. He murmurs, “Almost there, hang on.” 

Sam smiles back. 

And indeed they are met with the sight of Sam’s apartment all too soon. Reluctantly, they slip out of each other’s arm as they stand in front of the uneven stoop. The sky is just a tad lighter by now. The apartment is silent, save for the very faint sounds of people getting up for the day. 

“Thanks a lot again. For hanging out with me and walking me home”, Sam says. 

“Yeah, no problem. I think we should do it again sometime soon.” Steve brushes back his bangs and his eyes are back to sheepish and determined again. 

Sam nods. “Right.”

More wants to be said between them. So, so much more. But neither one knows…how to say it or even _what_ exactly they want to say. As they look at each other, a swirling, confusing blend of waiting for the other to say something and for there to be nothing to say at all because, dammit, it’s beyond awkward. It borders on terrifying. 

Simply terrifying because it’s only the _first night_ that they’ve met. Sam just came up from the fucking South with his family, what they could carry in their raggedy car and little else. Though he’s been a little on this side of lucky to never experience a crazed cracker directly laying a hand on him, coming up here and setting his sights on a White boy-and having said White boy set mutual eyes on him-was the last thing he expected. Steve (and Bucky, for that matter) is more than safe; he’s an outright joy to be around and Sam really, really does want to see him again. It’s just…some shit you (kinda) walk out of makes you not expect to walk into certain other kinds of shit. 

And Steve, looking into Sam’s beautiful dark brown eyes, understands all of it and begrudges none of it. None of it at all. It’s only been one, single night since they’ve met and all he really wants for Sam is for him to find happiness and safety. Steve wants that for Sam, even if it means that nothing else is going to come out of this brief time together because his Whiteness doesn’t factor into that particular equation. No matter how much that may hurt, it’s just nowhere near an eighth of the hurt that Sam surely has and is still going through. 

Steve will not press. 

Sam can read that in Steve’s sky blue eyes. He reads that and…maybe it’s his exhaustion or his confusion or both, but he can’t quite tell how he feels about that. He can’t…give Steve an answer just yet. Or at least, he feels like he can’t give Steve the answer that’s already forming on his tongue because it’s all just too scary as of yet. 

Damn, Sam is so, so tired. 

And as they stand there…nothing happens. Nothing at all. 

Sam swallows and says softly, “Well…g’night, Steve.” 

Steve’s narrow shoulders heave with a deep breath. “G’night, Sam.” 

Sam turns to go inside and it’s the sight of his back that makes Steve speak, hand outstretched like he wants to grasp Sam to him forever. 

“Hey, Sam? Wait?” 

Sam turns a quarter, standing atop the stoop and hand paused on the door. His heart pounds. “Hmm?” 

“I…I was wondering…umm…” Steve takes another deep breath and stuffs his hands in his pockets in a vain attempt to hide their shaking. 

“You should…I know you and your family will be looking for jobs and just…you know, tryin’ to settle in. But, like, just like you saw, there’s plenty to do and enjoy ‘round here. And there are more friends to make, too. You know, makin’ friends…not hard for someone like you, who’s, you know…real, real easy to like and get along with. Uhh…yeah. Real easy to like.” _Selfish fucking bastard…_

Sam blinks and fully turns around. “Steve, what’re you sayin’?” 

Steve brushes his bangs back again. “I’m sayin’, just…explore a little. Be sure to do it with, you know, the rest of the crew. ‘Specially, like, Monica and Charles and Maria and James. They…they know their way real well ‘round here.”

A twinkle that lacks even less innocence than a wink dances across Sam’s eyes. He tilts his head, a coy smile on his face. “Yeah. I don’t think that’ll be a problem. _You_ know your way real well ‘round here, too. Got me home early in one piece, didn’ you?”

Steve gives that twinkle right back. “Yeah…guess I did.” 

They share a smile of…hope. Just a little, tiny bit of hope. 

Sam purses his lips as he thinks. “Well…you think any of them or you know where there’s a park that lets us Negroes in 24/7? And we don’t have to come in the back way? I like parks.” 

Steve’s eyes light up. “Oh, I can tell you that! You got a pen and paper on you? I can write you the address and directions right now.” 

“Uh…but why?” Sam blinks in confusion. 

“Well…so you know how to get there, safe and sound and enjoy yourself.” Steve returns the blink of confusion. 

There’s a pause full of pure _lost_ between them and then Sam is chuckling. “Steve! I meant I want you to actually take me to the park.” 

Steve’s eyes widen with wonder. “You mean…” 

“You. Yes, as in _you_ take _me_ with _you_ to the _park_ so you can keep being my unpaid tour guide”, Sam chuckles. 

A brand new smile blooms over Steve’s face and he leans back. “Oh, I’m just your ‘unpaid tour guide’ now? That’s how it is?” 

Sam mirrors that smile tenfold. “Ohh, that’s how it is.” 

“Well, okay, Mr. Sam Wilson. Guess you’ll be rackin’ up a tab for tour guides, then. Be prepared for a hefty bill.” 

“I’ll be prepared, Mr. Steve Rogers. I’ll be prepared. Now…before I fall asleep on this stoop, what time you think you can take me to this park?”

“No, no. What time is good for you?” 

“Well…any time, since I don’t work or go to school at the moment. All I do is keep the house up for my parents.” 

“Hmm…alright. I’ll say sometime next week. Maybe…Tuesday? How’s that?” 

“That sounds great. Tuesday…afternoon?”

“Next Tuesday afternoon. Sounds like a date.” 

“It is a date, yep.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“Where _is_ it, Bucky?” 

“I have no idea.”

“Yes you do!” 

“No I don’t, you shit.” 

“Oh c’mon! I’ll do the dishes next time, I swear!” 

See, it ain’t that Steve is particularly hard to live with. No, that ain’t it. Far from it. The man does his share of laundry, don’t wake Bucky up out of his sleep, does his share of the cooking and all that. Hell, he even buys Bucky his favorite chocolate every now and then as a surprise, tips permitting. And besides which, Bucky loves having his Steve with him. Always has, always will. 

But the little blond son of bitch just cannot wash the dishes to save his life. Bucky can count on one goddamned hand the number of single dishes Steven Grant Rogers has washed in his _life_. Hell, if it wasn’t for Bucky picking up the slack, Steve would probably eat out the fucking pots and pans just to keep from washing the dishes. 

“‘Next time’ my ass. Now go’on and get to your date.” 

Steve pauses in the middle of looking through Bucky’s box of old photographs. “But it’s for _Sam_ ”, he whines. 

“What the hell are you even looking for again?” Bucky asks as he plunges a bowl into the warm, soapy water. 

Steve has the gall to look about ready to hurl the box at Bucky’s head. “Your fucking cologne, Bucky. So I can smell good for Sam because, you know…it’s Sam.” 

Bucky gives him a long, long look as he slowly circles the brush over a plate. He pauses to roll his falling sleeves higher up on his forearm. He starts on a fork and grouses, “You mean to tell me that you can’t wash a few dishes, but you can go tearing up this apartment looking for cologne? Are you serious?” 

“I told you I’ll do them next time! And if you don’t give me that cologne, I’m gonna be late for Sam!” Steve throws his hands up in frustration. “C’mon, Buck!” 

As always, Bucky relents with a half-hearted sigh and an eye roll. He dries his wet, soapy hands on a towel, goes into their bedroom and brings out the tiny bottle of dark liquid. “Here, you punk. Just make sure you only-”

“‘…Put on a little so I don’t aggravate my lungs’. I know.” He gratefully takes the cologne and dabs just a tiny bit on both his wrists and one side of his neck. Ahh…

“ _And_ so you don’t overwhelm Sam. Oh, and here…” Bucky goes to their small refrigerator and pulls out a tiny basket. “Take this with you. Be sure to eat, both of you.”

Steve blinks at the basket. They have neither much in in the way of money and time…

“Buck, y-”

“Just have a good time with Sam and tell him I say ‘hi’ and I can’t wait to see him again, alright? Now get outta here before you’re late to picking him up.” Bucky pauses. “You smell good, by the way.”

Steve smiles softly and gestures with the basket. “Thanks a lot, Buck.” He turns and gets his satchel and Bucky smiles at what he puts in it. 

“So, you’re gonna show him that?” 

“Yep. Don’t really figure any reason not to.” 

Steve’s smile is just chock full of nervous excitement that Bucky can’t help but lean in and give him a kiss on his cheek. When he pulls away, Steve’s brow is slightly furrowed in confusion. Bucky explains, “Just happy to see you happy. And happy to see Sam happy. You both deserve it.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’ll be back, uhh…later.” Steve heads for the door. 

Bucky turns back to the kitchen sink and waves dismissively in the other man’s direction. “If you don’t, that’s just fine. Nat’s coming over soon and we like our _time_.” 

Steve turns back and says, “Oh yeah, I know. But just to be clear, if I’m not back in time, then I can’t help you limp around all over the place the next day.” 

He snickers as he dodges a wet dish towel. 

Luckily, Steve is just in time to pick up Sam. When Sam takes a whiff of Steve’s cologne and smiles, he makes a mental note to just go ahead and hide Bucky’s cologne on his side of the bed from now on.

Sam takes one look at the satchel on Steve’s back and the basket on his arm and says, “Oh! Hang on! I’ll be right back!” 

Sam disappears into his apartment and comes back out with a thin, beige blanket folded up over his arm. “Do I got the right idea?” 

Steve’s heart soars. It’s one thing just to take Sam to the park, but to actually turn it into a picnic…this day probably couldn’t get any better. He beams at Sam. “Yep. Right idea all the way around. C’mon, we wanna get there before it gets too crowded!” 

Glanden Park is nestled comfortably up against East Harlem. It’s a quaint, beautiful park. In the very center of it is a tiny pond, the bank of which two Latino men sit on buckets, idly fishing and speaking in low, rapid Spanish. To the far right is a small playground complete with rickety green-and-purple swing set, jungle gym and sandbox. An elderly Black woman sits on a bench watching two young, profoundly adorable Black girls take turns pushing each other on the creaky swings. Scattered all around are benches with rusted armrests and legs. A young Jewish man sits on one of the benches, reading his Torah with a contented smile. On another bench is a Black couple facing each other and whispering what are most likely sweet nothings on a mid-Tuesday morning. And just a few more people mill about in the park, quietly enjoying the patch of free green smack in the middle of grey industry and American capitalism. There are plenty of trees for shade, their branches swaying and verdant leaves shaking in the light breeze. 

The people pay Sam and Steve no more mind than is polite as they settle down under a wide tree to have their little picnic. Sam spreads the blanket out and Steve extracts all the food. It’s apple jelly sandwiches, sliced potatoes, two apples and a tiny pitcher of lemonade with two cups. 

Sam stares at the simple bounty. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to court me, Mr. Tour Guide.” 

Steve snorts as he pours Sam a cup of lemonade. “And you know what? I might say you’re on the right track…except I didn’t make any of this. Bucky did.” He pours himself lemonade. “Tempting to take credit, though.” 

“Aww…” Sam pauses as he takes his cup from Steve. He looks at the food, then at the peacefulness of Glanden Park. “Well, then tell him thank you for me. Seriously, thank you.”

“I’ll try, but it might come out as ‘Sam hated this shit so bad that he threw it all up. Never make anything again’”, Steve laughs. 

“Oh my god, what is _wrong_ with you two? You two are nothin’ but messes, I swear.” 

“And that’s what’s wrong with us: we’ve spent way, way too much time ‘round each other. Known each other our whole lives and, as a result…we’re just sorry messes now.” 

Sam and Steve share a chuckle at that. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they enjoy their food. Sam eats around the crust on the bread and Steve makes a mental note to tell Bucky to keep the crust off Sam’s sandwiches next time. 

Sam swallows a bite of apple and jerks his chin towards Steve’s satchel. “What’s in there?” 

“Oh! I…yeah, I wanted to show you…something. May I show you something?” Steve looks up at Sam from his beneath those ridiculously long lashes. 

“Yes, please. I’d love to see whatever you brought”, Sam says sincerely. 

Steve sports that blinding smile again and pulls out a sketchbook from his satchel. Sam puts his apple down and reverently takes the sketchbook in his hands. It’s easy to tell that it’s an old thing, much-beloved and weathered far, far past its prime. Its dark blue cover is riddled in scratches, indents and old brown stains. Several of the pages are dog-eared and surely some pages have scratches and stains on them too, and another handful of them may even have been ripped out a long, long time ago. It smells wonderfully of acrylics and paint and lead and charcoal. 

It smells of Steve. 

He doesn’t need Steve to tell him that there are very, very few people he lets look at this. Tenderly, he runs a hand over the worn, blue cover. 

“You sure you want me to look?” 

“Yeah. I want you to. Please.” 

Without further ado, Sam opens it to the first page and, _damn_. The word ‘beautiful’ can’t quite describe it. As he takes his time flipping through the dog-eared pages, he becomes more and more captivated. With each page, Steve quietly commentates on what Sam is looking at and what materials used to bring the creation to life. This is a watercolor of the Empire State Building. This one is another watercolor of Monica performing on stage. That is a charcoal drawing of Mrs. Bailey, who lives across the way from Steve and Bucky, smoking a cigarette. This one is just a little painting of a few kids playing ball in the street. Oh, and that one is just a plain pencil drawing of Charles and James enjoying a game of poker. 

Sam delicately runs his fingers over each extraordinary piece of work. The textures fascinate him just as much as the visuals. Smooth here, slightly rough there and almost indistinguishable from the base paper over here. 

“This is all amazing, Steve. You got talent. You do”, Sam says quietly. 

Steve gives him a self-depreciating smile and a shrug. “Huh, thanks. Well, it’s talent enough to put some bread on the table so Bucky doesn’t have to carry so much of the load.” 

“And it’s ‘talent enough’ to score you even more points as an unpaid tour guide”, Sam quips. 

Steve scoffs. “You know what? I take the damn tab back. From now on, I’m adding up your total every hour on the hour and you’re gonna pay me the full amounts at the ends of each session.” 

Sam looks up from Steve’s sketchbook and smirks. “Oh that’s how it is?” 

“Oh, that’s how it is.” Steve nods firmly. 

A brown-and-grey pigeon lands near their blanket and Sam breaks into a new smile. “Well hi there, little guy.” He picks up the sandwich crusts off his paper plate, breaks them into tiny pieces and starts feeding the pigeon a little at a time. Two more join the first and Sam feeds them too. 

Steve watches and quietly asks, “So you like birds?” 

“Uh huh. Always have. Daddy still teases me that it’s just because I was actually born in a bird’s nest and I’m feeling nostalgic. One day I tried to fly and I fell, but him and Mama were there to catch me real quick.” He looks up at Steve, brown eyes dancing with pure mirth. “And that’s how I became part of the family. Crazy, ain’t it?” 

Steve leans forward and squints at Sam, as though he’s looking a conspiracy-laced puzzle he wants to figure out. “…I knew there was something off about you. So that makes sense.” 

“Prolly should’ve told you earlier, then. Instead of, you know, leaving you out there hanging and guessing. Shitty of me. Real, real shitty. Sorry, Steve.” 

“No, it’s okay. A lot of weird people that were born in birds’ nests don’t like to come out. Hurts their socializing chances, you know.” 

They share a laugh. 

Steve carefully broaches a new subject as he watches Sam finish feeding the pigeons bread crumbs. “Do you draw or paint at all? Or have you ever?” 

Sam glances at Steve, then looks away so quickly that Steve nearly missed the look of longing there. “No…no, I didn’t. Never really been the artistic type. I…” Sam trails off, and then seems to gather himself enough to continue. “I studied at Howard back home. Wanted to be a doctor. Didn’t quite know what kind just yet-I was thinking prolly go into psychology after the Great War. You know, saw all those people come home and they just…got a lot of wounds that you can’t see with the naked eye and I figured I wanted to help them. A lot of those people were my friends and that…that helped send it home even more, you know?”

Steve merely nods, sensing that he needs to keep quiet. 

Sam continues, “Mama was ‘bout to burst with pride and Daddy was wipin’ tears away. Would’ve been the first in the family to get a degree and do somethin’ that I wanted to do. Hell, my parents were already happy that I went to college anyway; they didn’t really care what I went into.” 

“Then it was just…Depression hit us when we were already getting hit because we’re Black. No money, no prospects, no nothing. Crazed white crackers getting crazier ‘cause they were scared and we’re everyone’s favorite target. I had to drop out. And we came up here.” 

Sam stares at the grass and it’s quiet for a long, long time. The silence is broken when Sam gives a low, humorless laugh. “Look at me. Wanna be a psychologist and help people. Being a psychologist means you gotta help people talk their shit through…and here I am, being a hypocrite. Not even wanting to talk about this shit, like that’s gonna help make it go away.” He blinks rapidly and turns his face away. 

When Steve is sure that his voice won’t shake from anger, he offers softly, “That’s not being a hypocrite. That’s just being human. I think…that’s normal. We can understand people talking to us about their problems because…we’re human and we have empathy. ‘Specially people like you. But when it comes to us, we’re a lot harsher on ourselves. That’s…that’s a lot of people, Sam. You ain’t a hypocrite.” 

Sam looks sideways at Steve, a furrow of…hesitancy in his brow. “You think so?” 

“Uh huh. I know so. I didn’ really wanna talk to anyone after my Ma and Pa went. But…” Steve breathes deep through his nose and forces himself to continue. “But Bucky convinced me to and, sometime, you’re gonna be able to talk too. Maybe not to me or, you know, anyone else you know right now. But you’re gonna talk and, hopefully, you’re gonna feel a lot better. I know it.” 

That furrow irons out of Sam’s brow and a barely-perceptible smile comes to his lips. “I guess so. I’d…like to talk about it sometime. Mama and Daddy always say they’re there for me but, you know, they’re your goddamn _parents_ and they’re…” 

“…Supposed to be anyway. So they don’ count”, Steve finishes. 

“Exactly.” 

They share a self-depreciating laugh. 

Steve notices something under Sam’s left sleeve. He jerks his chin towards it. “Hey…what’s that?” 

Sam looks down at what Steve is gesturing to. “Oh. That’s my Mark.” Sam pushes up his sleeve, revealing it.

It is a beautiful, beautiful Mark. It is a falcon and grey, indicating that Sam is Unbonded. 

“May I?” Steve’s hand hovers over Sam’s forearm. 

“Yeah, sure.” Sam extends his arm for Steve. 

Steve’s hands are so gentle that the pads of his fingertips feel like delicate feathers just breathing over Sam’s skin. There’s an undeniable look of… _wanting_ in Steve’s sky blue eyes. Sam doesn’t deny that there’s a mutual wanting flaring in his chest at the same time. But they both know better. Hell, are both secretly halfway to being glad that Steve is Unmarked and has a good feeling that he’s going to stay that way.

Nobody forgot about _Kyle-Hemsen vs. Milledge_. 

There’s nothing more to it than that.

Steve’s hand falls away from Sam’s arm. “Well…it’s really pretty. Whoever shares that Mark with you is a lucky person.” 

Sam rolls his sleeve back down, arm tingling from where Steve touched it. “Thanks. I…kind of can’t wait to meet them.” He thinks for a moment. “You could meet them too, you know. You and the whole rest of the crew? That’d be nice, if…you know, they’re around here somewhere and we’re all still friends.” 

The other man swallows the heavy lump down his throat. “I’d love to meet them. I think…that’d be important to meet them. Yeah, sure.” 

They definitely don’t need to be share a Mark and be Bonded to be able to have any kind of relationship they want. A great many, many people all over the world love each other just fine without Bonded Marks, despite whatever stigma there may be. And Sam and Steve are relatively safe to indulge in each other here, in Harlem so long as they never share a Mark. It’d be nice to…share a Mark, but it is not meant to be.

This is all they will be allowed and it has to be enough. 

Sam picks up Steve’s sketchbook and brushes a hand over the cover. He says, “I think we should do this again. I like this.” 

Steve takes Sam’s other hand in his small one and squeezes gently. “I like this too.” 

It _is_ enough.

-

One lazy Saturday afternoon, Charles and Sam crowd into Shany’s Bar to teach Sam how to better play poker. 

The poor man has already lost every single game they’ve played so far. It’s only fair to make a practice game out of it like everyone else in their crew has for once, so Sam can actually have a chance at beating someone. 

Mostly Charles. 

And just about every time that Charles has won over Bucky, Charles leaned back in his chair and casually noted over a sip of wine, “I shot you lightly and you died politely.”

So Sam is mighty grateful that Charles is taking this time to teach him. Teach him about his tells, how to look, how not to look, when to pick up the cards and all that. Charles could be out with his lady Monica, or grading his kids’ papers or, hell, just sleeping in…but he chooses to spend time with Sam. 

Oh yes, Sam is mighty grateful once again. 

About fifteen minutes into their game, Charles, without looking up from his hand says, “You just got a good draw.” 

Sam freezes and stares. “How’d you know…?” 

Charles eyes Sam from behind his glasses. With a small smile, he counsels, “Because your shoulders are bouncing. I told you that about ten minutes ago when you last did it. We need to work on that, in addition to that little nervous leg bump of yours when your cards aren’t good.” 

“…Do you ever wish you _weren’t_ so smart in poker? Like, just…have you ever tried not being so observant? It’d probably, you know, help me win more often”, Sam complains. 

“Possibly, but then where would that leave you? There are worse players out there besides Bucky and me and you might play with them someday. So you’ll want to go ahead and fix those tells of yours right now, as well as learn other people’s tells quickly.” 

“Like I said, do you _wish_ you weren’t so smart in poker? Is it painful?” 

Charles just chuckles and pushes his glasses farther up his nose. “Sometimes. Now, how about we add more chips here?” 

“Deal.” 

They continue on with their game. Charles tirelessly counsels Sam in tricks and techniques, to which Sam responds gratefully. Every now and then, a conversation on politics and sociology slips in and it’s almost like they’re mirror images of each other in those conversations, bringing their friendship even closer. Charles loves having another person to talk to and Sam, if he could, would just drink Charles’ superior education and worldliness all day. 

But there is something nagging at Sam, something that he’s been wanting to ask Charles about since they started this little practice session. 

James. 

Sam still can’t get the image of the raw pain and grief on James’ face that first night out in Harlem’s nightlife. Though it’s never come up again, he still feels terrible about bringing about whatever bad memories James had. And the man is so kind and is nearly ridiculous in how easily he shares with Sam-it goes even beyond letting Sam wear his zoot suits and all the way up to his immediate befriending of Sam, just like the rest of the crew. And Sam…Sam wants desperately to be a good friend right back. And part of being a good friend is knowing and taking care around whatever hurts your friend, even (or especially) if it means that you can’t take away what’s hurting them. 

Quietly, Sam mulls over whether or not to broach the topic with Charles. After a few minutes, Sam makes his decision. 

“Hey, Charles?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can I…ask about James?” 

Charles looks up from his hand with a slight wrinkle in his brow. “What about James?” 

Sam asks his question before he can convince himself not to. “Why is James hurt? I…think I brought up something about…a person and he…looked really hurt about it.” 

The table is quiet for a long, long time as Charles’ intelligent brown eyes study Sam from behind their glasses. Sam can’t tell for shit what Charles is thinking, how Charles is going to respond. He shifts uncomfortably under the gaze. 

The quiet is broken by Charles’ deep, deep sigh. He closes his eyes for a brief period and when he looks at Sam again, he looks exhausted. Like only someone who’s carried secrets that are too heavy to carry can be. Charles’ voice is low and full of more emotion than Sam’s ever heard it since meeting him. “Yes, James is hurt. Very, very hurt. Sad and depressed, too. You are not wrong.” 

“But it’s not for you to say what’s hurt him so bad”, Sam guesses. 

“Right. I can tell you, though, that it was…someone leaving him. It was a long, long time ago but, of course, time can mean nothing when you’re grieving.” 

Sam feels the first flares of anger burst in his chest. “Did they hurt him? Abuse him or some shit? Leave him out in the streets?” 

“Oh, no.” Charles surprises the hell out of Sam by chuckling incredulously at the mere idea. “I don’t think they’d ever be capable of doing such a thing.” 

At the disbelieving look on Sam’s face, Charles composes himself and continues, “No, really. They couldn’t do that to James. All I can tell you is that it was just time for their relationship to end. Monica and I just…well, we’ve always been friends with James and that other person to begin with. So we just helped James recover and…it happened a long, long time ago. That’s all I can disclose. I hope you understand.” 

Sam nods sincerely. “Yeah. I understand.” 

A small smile graces Charles’ lips. “And I hope you also understand that, unless James tells you, he’s never sad because of you. You made a mistake that night because you didn’t know any better. He still very much values your friendship-it causes him not the slightest bit of pain, my friend.” 

Sam returns the smile and ducks his head, humbled. “Well…I value his friendship too. A hell of a lot. I’m mighty glad I know him.” 

“And that’s mutual for all of us.” Another beat of silence. “Now, have I taught you all of Bucky’s tells yet?” 

“Uhh…you only gave me…four so far, I think.” 

“Ah. Well, there are about six more. C’mon.”

“You know…you’re a lot nicer than people guess you are, I bet.” 

Charles winks at him and lifts a finger to his lips in a ‘Shh’ gesture. “It’s a secret. Don’t tell my enemies.” 

Their practice game continues. 

Sam still thinks about James.

-

**East Harlem, New York, 1938**

Slowly, bit by bit…Sam settles into his Harlem life. Daddy finds a job at the factory and Mama joins a hair salon after getting good word-of-mouth from doing Monica and Maria’s hair within their apartment. Sam struggles to find a job himself and sorely misses going to school at Howard back home in D.C. Charles quietly gets Sam a position as an assistant teacher to a language arts teacher at his school. When Sam tried to protest or at the very least, pay the man back, Charles simply informed him that he’ll pick him up in the morning to ride the subway to work together. 

Between working, learning and tending to the household chores, Sam spends time with all of his family and new friends. 

Especially Steve. 

They go on more and more cheap ass dates. The kind of dates that two broke ass kids can afford in New York. They go to see more Oscar Micheaux movies. Sam takes Steve home to meet his parents and after a long, long session of dubious staring, interrogation and side-eyes, Mama asks him to stay for dinner. They have a few more picnics at the park and other times, they push children on swings when their parents are too tired to do so, sit on the bank of the small pond in the middle, and lay on their backs and watch the clouds lazily drift above them. They rarely miss a performance from Monica and Maria and they always join the crowd in the standing ovations. They go to the library, where Sam heavily indulges in the medical textbooks and bird guides and Steve re-reads yet another of his favorite books on art for the thousandth time. They ride the subways back and forth, with Steve pointing out future landmarks that are safe for Sam to visit. 

It’s after a long, long day of tireless work-Sam assisting the language arts teacher, Ms. Neal and Steve selling his commissions-where they’re strolling arm-in-arm down the lit streets of Harlem nightlife that they realize it. 

Sam’s zoot suit (once again, borrowed lovingly from James) is a black-and-blue combination, tastefully topped with a feather in his hat. Steve is wearing a simple black suit, not unlike the one he wore when they first met. They’re on their way to their favorite Silver Curtain Club for some much-needed dinner and fun with their crew (it’s Monica’s night off and she insisted that she wanted _all_ of her friends with her).

Sam finds himself glancing at his friend more than is politely necessary. He looks forward to every day that they can spend time together. He especially loves when he and Steve can just quietly lounge around together in either of their apartments and sometimes the park, though it’s less private. It’s those times where they cuddle against the other man’s side and indulge in their occupations in companionable silence. That usually means Steve drawing and/or painting and Sam reading/learning and drawing out lesson plans. 

Sam loves Steve’s hands. 

Most especially, Sam loves the _magic_ that Steve weaves from his hands. 

He sits close to Steve, practically breathing on his shoulder and watches him weave his magic on the paper. Sam’s nose is just full of the scents of charcoal and acrylics and paint and he _loves_ it. Steve’s never minded-quite the opposite, in fact. Steve always makes sure to scoot even closer, so close that they’re soaking in each other’s presence and neither one can tell whose body heat is whose. 

Sam loves the little expressions, the little gestures that Steve makes as he works that magic. He starts on a corner here and his tongue sticks out the side of his mouth in concentration. Just before he chooses a paint color (and he’ll often ask Sam for help in picking out the reds and greens), he brushes his bangs to the side-to the right or to the left, Sam’s never cared because either way is gorgeous. And then, when Steve has bent his head over for long enough and his bangs fall into his eyes, he takes a second to impatiently flip them out of the way. Sometimes, halfway through his work, he’ll pause and quietly mutter ‘…The fuck did I do?’ to himself. Sam has seen exactly two times Steve ripping out a page, crumpling it up and throwing it away. But even more commonly, Sam watches Steve make the pages come to life in real time. 

He doesn’t yet know what to do the swelling emotion that bursts inside his chest from the fact that more than half the times, what was created as a portrait of him. Steve draws him smiling as he feeds the pigeons in the park, with particular emphasis on the gap in his teeth. Draws him grading his students’ papers. Draws him playing poker (and, admittedly, still losing to Charles like everyone else) with the crew. Draws him reading the newspaper. 

And besides the artistic magic of Steve’s hands, there’s just Steve _himself_. His witty sarcasm is drier than a damn bone; he has about five different winks and four different smirks meaning nine different unspoken, sarcastic remarks that he shares just with Sam. Those sky blue eyes are always alight when he comes to pick Sam up on time for their dates. He damn near takes Sam’s breath away every time he brushes those bangs of his to either side. And Steve is kind and generous. So, so kind and generous and all he ever says is ‘Well, you know what they say: when you got nothin’, there’s a hell of a lot to go around, huh?’.

Sam can only smile when Steve says that. 

Steve, too, is struggling with glancing at his friend more than is politely necessary. He stole Bucky’s cologne again and Sam’s smiling upon getting a whiff of it made it more than worth it. It’s…strange, but not strange, how invested and enthralled he is in Sam’s pleasure. Because he has friends and he had live parents once and he definitely loved their pleasure, their happiness. That’s normal, to be expected when you love people; you want to see the ones you love happy and you go out of your way with what you have to see it. That, you desire. 

With Sam, that desire is impossibly more forceful. At first, Steve thought that his desire to see Sam happy came out of the fact that he knows that Sam and his family didn’t come to Harlem for a happy vacation. Sam still doesn’t talk about it (and Steve certainly doesn’t broach the topic with his parents), but Steve remains ever-aware. So he thought that he just loves Sam’s happiness and pleasure because, hell, Sam needs and deserves it more than anything and Steve has just a little bit in the way of being able to help in that way. 

But it’s more than that. So, so much more. Steve loves it all, watches it all, indulges in it all. Sam’s slow, steady breaths as he falls asleep from Steve brushing his hair. Sam’s wide, wide smile that shows off the adorable gap in his front teeth when the pigeons he likes to feed endears him. That deep, thoughtful crease in his brow when he’s listening to the radio or watching the TV for the latest news. And when Sam’s parents aren’t home, he drinks the orange juice straight out the can and grins when Steve follows suit, both of them snickering as they do something they’re not supposed to do. And it’s how Sam slowly goes through his library books and the books he’s borrowed from Maria and James. He goes slowly, like there’s not a single bit of information on human pathology and bird watching he wants to miss. And when he finds something fascinating, he can barely wait five seconds before he tells the nearest person of his findings and the more questions you ask him, the happier he gets. 

All of that. All of that and more that Steve wakes up every day to see. 

And when the night is over and Steve is walking Sam home ahead of everyone else, Steve takes a leap. 

An impossibly huge, huge leap that’s going to hurt like all fucking hell if he ends up crashing down to the earth, instead of softly landing. 

“Hey…Sam?” He starts softly. 

Sam yawns and gives him a little, sleepy smile that sends his heart fluttering. “Mmhmm?”

“I gotta tell you something.” 

“…Yeah, you’re on my left. I know.” 

“No. Something else.” 

“Okay, I’m still not paying you for your tour guides.” 

“No, not…that either.” 

Sam frowns and tilts his head in confusion. “No? What’s goin’ on then?”

Steve takes a deep, deep breath and then lets it out in a loud _woosh_. “It’s just…somethin’ else. Just somethin’ else.” 

“Well…what is the ‘something else’? You’re kinda scaring me, Steve…” 

“Naw, you don’t have to be scared. Please don’t be scared. It’s just…see, what it is? It’s…it’s nothing you have to respond to. It’s not like-”

Sam stops walking and faces Steve. The other man mirrors him. 

Sam’s beautiful dark brown eyes are searching Steve’s face. “What do you mean that I don’t have to respond? Why wouldn’t I respond? Steve…what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. It’s nothing _bad_ , it’s just…” At the deepening look of concern on Sam’s face, Steve runs a hand over his hair and lets out a harsh sigh. He looks up at the streetlights as though they’ll have the solution for him. “Look, you know I’m not good at this shit!” 

“Clearly, otherwise we wouldn’t be standing on the street in the wee hours of the morning with you tryin’ to tell me somethin’ that you _say_ is not bad. But you’re actin’ like it is, Steve, and that’s what’s worrying me.” 

“I just said it’s nothing bad!” 

“But that’s not how you’re acting! So until you just spit it out, I’m gonna worry!” 

“I don’t want you to worry.” 

“So tell me!” 

“It’s not that simple. Look, I…I don’t even know why I brought it up.” 

“Nope. Nu uh. Too late for that. _Spill._ ” 

“But it’s kinda…it’s just kinda a big deal, ‘kay? And I don’t want you to feel any pressure.” 

Sam’s dry, dry look of being unamused fazes Steve big time. “Pressure? Nope. Not feeling any pressure here when someone I thought I was really, really, really close to can’t just tell me something.” Sam sighs. 

“Look, do you just wanna wait ‘till we get to my apartment to spill? That way we have a little privacy? Or hell, wait until the morning? Err…later in the morning?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sakes…” Steve impatiently rubs a hand over his eyes, takes yet another deep breath, looks up at Sam and declares, “I love you.” 

Sam’s dry expression turns into one of pure surprise. His eyes go wide, his mouth shapes into a perfect ‘o’ of shock and his eyebrows damn near disappear into his hairline. “Oh.” 

“Yeah. ‘Oh’.” Feeling impossibly vulnerable, Steve pretends to adjust his suit and looks away. “…You ridiculously wonderful human being. Hope you’re…fucking happy.” 

It’s silent for just a while, and then…

Sam’s voice is brighter than the coming sun. “Well, as a matter of fact…I am pretty fucking happy.” 

Steve doesn’t have time to contemplate the meaning of that and crumple to the ground in the process. He doesn’t have time because in the next second, Sam’s impossibly warm, gentle hand is cupping his chin and turning his face towards him. Still terrified of rejection, Steve keeps his eyes on the ground. 

“Hey, can I get a little eye contact here? Believe it or not, this is hard as hell for me too.” Sam’s voice is as tender as his touch. 

Steve acquiesces, shyly looking up at Sam through his lashes. 

Sam’s eyes are bright and _shimmering_ with unrestrained…something that Steve doesn’t dare believe is actually there. The smile that flourishes over Sam’s face…that does it. The whole of the lights of Harlem can’t overtake the combination of those eyes and that smile. They can’t. Steve is staring at the lights…the Harlem lights are _here_ …

And then Sam goes and destroys him in only the way Sam Wilson can. “I love you too, Steve.” 

Like an idiot, Steve places his hands on Sam’s wrist and asks, “You mean it?” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“I love you too.” 

“I love you more.” 

“You can’t-I said it first.” 

“Yeah, after doing the worst attempt at evading that I’ve ever seen.” 

“Well you know, you don’t quite tell someone as amazing as you that kind of thing. That shit doesn’t come easy.” 

“You ever thought of the possibility that you’re just as amazing?” 

“Not really. But if you think so, then I’ll consider it.” 

“Yes, please do consider it and, while you’re at it, convince yourself of it. And you know what?” 

“What?” 

“I’m thinking we should kiss now. That sounds pretty good. What do you say?” 

“I say you should’ve asked me sooner. C’mere.” 

“Agreed.” 

Sam leans down so Steve doesn’t have to stand on the tips of his toes. As soon as their lips touch, it’s _electric_. The sensitive flesh of their lips touch and they never want to part. They taste like every hope and dream and heaven they never thought they’d have to each other. They press closer together, quickly becoming oblivious of anything and/or anyone around them. Steve goes on the balls of his feet and clutches the lapels of Sam’s suit tightly in his hands, holding on for dear life. Sam’s arms go firmly, but gently around Steve’s thin back, needing an anchor to the place called earth. Neither one knows whose tongue pushed at whose teeth, but soon their tongues are dancing a dance that shoots white-hot blood down south. Their cocks are soon blooming and straining against their pants and it’s by the grace of god that they don’t grind frantically against each other in the middle of the sidewalk, in damn near-broad daylight. 

Their breaths mingle, their saliva mixes and their teeth click together as their mouths all but eat each other. The irritating need for oxygen has them pulling away from each other. They part with a trail of saliva between their lips and bright, bright eyes. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thar be smut ahead this chapter, lovelies.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Sam asks as he finishes outlining a lesson plan. 

Steve feigns nonchalance as he works in his sketchbook. “Lookin’ at you like what? And can you tell me which one’s red?” 

Sam places the red pencil in front of Steve, careful to keep the green one well-separated. “Like you still wanna give me ground rations all day.” 

“Oh, I wanna give you ground rations?” Steve looks up at his fella from beneath his lashes. His sky blue eyes are darkened until they’re nearly azure. 

“Well, I _think_ you wanna give me ground rations, Stevie. You’ve only been staring at my ass for the past few days, so I thought that’d be a good guess. Am I close?” Sam’s dark brown eyes are an irresistible, swirling blend of hazy and sultry as they watch Steve. 

“Huh…” Steve swallows nervously, but forces himself to continue. It’s Sam and Sam is the safest person in all the world to try this out with. “Well, see, it’s kinda different.”

“How so?” Sam frowns in concern. He didn’t want to make the mistake of thinking that Steve wanted something like this when, in fact, he didn’t. Sam didn’t want Steve to feel any kinds of uncomfortable whatsoever. 

Steve pushes his sketchbook and other materials away. He turns on the couch to fully face Sam, who mirrors the action. Steve’s got this-he practiced this pick-up line for _hours_. He looks Sam dead in the eye and explains, “See, I got a lot of _ground_ for you and…it ain’t rationed. I’m not rationed for you, Sam.” 

Sam’s eyes widen and he grins a grin that makes the blood rush up to Steve’s cheeks. “Is that right? You ain’t rationed at all?” 

“Nope. Not one bit.” 

“Well that’s surprising-I was gonna say the same to you. I think we can work with this…” 

“Then let’s stop talking and c’mere”, Steve responds, voice breathless with shock that his pick-up line actually worked. 

Sam pushes away his own work and then their lips are meeting again. If their first kiss was electric, this one, with the intent to make love is _explosive_. They already got their tongues dancing with each other and their hands can’t keep still. Sam’s hands bury themselves in Steve’s hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp; Steve’s hands smooth over the broadness of Sam’s shoulders and squeeze at the warm muscle there. 

In the next moment, Sam finds himself with Steve straddling his lap and deepening the kiss. Even as desire rages and arches between them, Sam pulls away briefly to ask, “Hey, there’s only one-”

“Yeah, an’ Buck and Nat do it in there. But we’ll just flip the mattress. How’s that?” Steve’s eyes are darkened to azure again and they wreak havoc with Sam’s erection. 

“Oh yeah. That…yeah, we can work with that. Fine. Just fine. Real fine. Mighty fine.” Sam leans forward to capture his fella’s lips with his again. 

“Mighty fine…” Steve repeats and then their mouths are eating each other again. 

It’s a blur how they get to the bed, flip the mattress over and fall atop it, kissing like they won’t have tomorrow. Sam is atop, blanketing his larger body over Steve’s. Steve wriggles around until he can spread his legs to where they’re on either side of Sam, creating a cradle for his fella’s hips. The air is heated between them, with a muskiness beginning to take place. Their erections grow and bloom and _strain_. Strain so, so bad.

Steve lifts his hips high off the mattress and grinds his stiff cock against Sam’s. At the contact, Sam jerks and moans deep in throat and returns the contact. His hips lower deeper into the cradle of Steve’s open legs and grinds right back with a warmth and pressure that’s _just right_. Steve is the second to jerk and cry out against Sam’s mouth. His teeth gently catch on Sam’s lower lip, gnawing on the delectable flesh and earning a long, drawn out groan from Sam. Sam grinds his erection against Steve again, nearly stopping both their hearts in the process. On the third time, he experiments on a down stroke. He lowers his hips, then angles to where he can drag his erection up, up, up over Steve’s for harder and longer. Steve gives a breathless moan and goes the opposite way down Sam’s erection for maximum friction-down, down, down. 

And they’re dry humping each other with their clothes still on. It’s sweet, blissful torture, taking away what little oxygen they can spare as their mouths devour each other. As their arousal climbs and climbs, so they can feel each other’s heart’s just thundering through their stiff staffs of flesh. Sometimes they pause in their grinding, erections pressed so tightly together and they can feel that artery just pounding and rushing and flushing the blood through. And that artery’s pounding in their cocks isn’t on too much of a different pace as the carotid fluttering in the hollow of their necks. If they were to reach down between their bodies and feel around, they’d feel the other’s balls drawn tight and heavy against their perineum. 

It’s not long before both Sam and Steve have a wetness blooming across their still-clothed groins and neither one quite knows who started leaking first. All they know is that the wetness makes their dry humping faster and easier. But they don’t want to cum like this, they don’t want it to end like this. 

Their clothes fly off and lay wherever. Sam’s button-down shirt lands a few feet away from the bed. Steve’s socks end up near the closet. And it’s the first time they’ve felt each other’s bare flesh. Their hands fly everywhere, greedy to know intimately their fella’s body and for their body to be known as such in turn. Their flesh is impossibly heated, with a light sheen of sweat beginning to form. 

They’re perfect to each other. Oh-so perfect. Sam is large and warm, his dark skin perfectly smooth and satiny everywhere Steve’s hands land. Steve is much smaller, his thin, pale skin heated and flushed pink nearly all over; where Sam’s hands aren’t firm, but gentle gropes, they leave caressing glides on Steve’s body that leave him arching and gasping for more. 

“Hey…guess I should confess…” Steve begins after a moment. 

Sam pulls away from indulging his lips on Steve’s neck and deduces, “You’ve never done this before.” 

“Nope.”

“And so you’re nervous as hell.”

“Yep.” 

“Would you believe it if I told you that I’m in the same situation?” 

“Oh yeah? I just…” Steve places a hand on Sam’s cheekbone and gently strokes his face with this thumb. “…Want it to be good for you.” 

Sam leans into Steve’s hand. “It will. It’ll be good for both of us-we’ll work together, ‘kay?” 

“‘Kay. Uhh…lube in the lower drawer.”

“…You know, I almost thought it was right under the bed.”

“Naw, no one likes to reach all the way under there.” 

They share a snicker and then Sam is getting the bottle out. He sits up and a little away from the welcoming cradle of Steve’s legs. Before he opens it and gets his fingers wet, he softly asks, “We go slow?” 

Steve nods, trying to quell his nervousness and desire at the same time. Or at least, quell it enough that Sam’s ever-perceptive eyes don’t catch it. _God_ , he just wants this to be good for both of them. “Yeah. Nice an’ slow. Both of us.” 

There’s no luck-Sam sees it all in his fella’s eyes. He smiles that reassuring smile that brings the gap in his teeth to full relief and Steve relaxes just a tiny bit more against the pillows. “Alright. Here we go. Think this is gonna feel…kinda cool.” 

He keeps eye contact with Steve as he opens the small bottle, gets his fingers wet and brings them to Steve’s opening. Ever since he left the v of Steve’s legs, the cool air hit their throbbing, aching erections. Now their shafts throb even harder for contact, for friction, for mutual _release_. The space between them is mildly damp with their combined pre cum and the slits of their reddened cocks continue to weep. A part of both of them just wants to be done with it and keep dry humping until they both come undone in each other’s arms. Fuck it, that grinding felt so, so good. It doesn’t help that the air is now muskier than ever with their combined arousal and they can each see that their fella’s balls are tight and heavy, drawn up close to the body as blood throbs through them. 

But they want to go slow, they want to savor this. For both of them, for each other. 

So Sam’s two lube-coated fingers come forward to Steve’s puckered opening. He simply touches his cool fingers to Steve’s anus and at the touch, Steve jerks and gasps. Sam nearly pulls his fingers away, but Steve grabs his wrist and brings them right back to where they were. “N-no. Just…it’s cold. Keep going.” 

Sam doesn’t move. “You sure?” 

“Uh huh.” 

Sam repeats the action and, this time, Steve gasps, but manages to stay still. Sam fucking torments him by merely circling his fingers around the outside of his hole, before ever so slowly pushing in. Steve bites his lip, darkened eyes shuttering at the pleasure and pushes his hips down on Sam’s hand. With a breathless, nervous laughter, Sam takes the cue and slowly thrusts his fingers in and out of the other man’s opening, just in and out. This is the correct thing to do, as Steve pushes down harder on Sam’s fingers, and lets out a long, guttural moan. His thin fingers grip the bedsheets and he tosses his head back against the pillows. The sight of this makes Sam pause and take a deep, deep, steadying breath before continuing. 

At this rate, if they don’t keep their concentration intact, they both really are going to prematurely come all over each other. 

With Steve’s opening thoroughly stretched and slicked, Sam pushes his two fingers in deeper. He pauses upon seeing the slight wince from his fella, and continues when Steve pushes his hips down again. Steve really is a sight. His rosy lips, glossy and swollen from their kissing, are parted. Hot and humid, his breath comes out in slow, measured pants. His legs are spread as wide as they can go, with feet planted on either side of Sam. Those feet keep digging into the mattress as his pleasure mounts with each new depth Sam’s fingers find. The sheets are going to be wrinkled as hell, what with the way Steve’s fingers and curling toes grip them. Swollen and throbbing more than ever, his cock’s purpling head touches on his smooth stomach. It weeps even more pre cum, the white fluid dripping and splashing onto his belly button, foreshadowing the congealing, sticky mess that’s sure to occur once they’re done and satiated. Sam can see right where his fingers disappear inside of Steve’s entrance. He’s already to the second knuckle and he can see that Steve’s inner flesh is swollen and reddened. And those blue eyes are so, so dark and set in a face that sports a deep red blush of arousal. 

Sam takes another deep, deep breath and concentrates on properly prepping Steve. 

Soon, he’s three fingers and three knuckles inside of the other man and Steve is biting his lip harder and low, incoherent sounds of pure want come out of that mouth. Sam bites his lip too and tries pushing his fingers up just a _tad_ more, hooks them upwards and-

“Gyuhh! Fuckin’ hell, Sam!” Steve cries as the tips of Sam’s fingers find his prostate. 

Sam, damn near breathless himself widens his eyes in mock astonishment. “What? What happened?” 

“You…fucker! Y’know what happened!” 

Sam blinks owlishly and goes, “What, this…?” And his fingers are a butterfly touch against that enlarged gland. “See, I didn’t…mean that, baby. It slipped.” 

Steve’s darkened eyes glare pure death and revenge at Sam. He growls, and lets go of the bedsheets to grip at Sam’s shoulders. “Stop…fucking teasing!” 

“Can’t I just make sure you’re stretched a little more?”

“ _No._ Get inside me, dammit.”

Sam chuckles and slowly pulls his fingers out. “Alrigh’, but let’s just keep goin’ slow, ‘kay?” 

Steve nods impatiently against the pillow, mussing his hair. “Fine, fine, fucking fine. Just…I wanna feel you, Sam. Get in here so I can feel you.” 

“Shh”, Sam soothes and drops a kiss on his fella’s lips, “Almos’ there, just hang on.” 

Steve’s hands tighten on Sam’s shoulders as Sam repositions himself at the apex of Steve’s legs. Impatiently, Steve cants his hips upwards for Sam’s penetration. He wants Sam inside of him so, so bad that he burns with wanting. Sam chews on his lip in nervousness; he worries very much about hurting Steve, even though they both promised to go slow and part of that means letting the other know if something hurt/was uncomfortable and they would stop immediately. 

He makes sure just one more time. “Hey, you tell me if it hurts, right?” 

Steve stares at him and moves both of his hands off his shoulders, to gently cup his face. “Yes. Yes, I will tell you. Just like you’d tell me. Yes, yes, yes. I would not lie to you. I promise. Now will you _please_ fuck me into this mattress before we both lose our goddamned collective minds?” 

Sam chuckles again and nods. “Okay…okay, let’s just keep goin’ slow.” 

“I’d prefer fast at this point, but if we’re only going slow, then I can handle it so long as we’re going.” 

Sam grabs the lube and pulls away from Steve again to coat his cock in the cool gel. Steve springs up and pulls the small bottle out of Sam’s hands. “Nope. I wanna do it. G’on and lay down.”

“Oh yeah? Pay back, is that what this is?” 

“Damn right.” Steve opens the bottle’s cap with a _pop_ that’s playfully ominous. 

Sam grins, a challenge in his eyes as he switches places with Steve and settles against the pillows. He and Steve maintain eye contact as Steve gets his hands good and slick and practically dripping. Sam opens his legs just a little to give his fella as much access as possible. 

Though Steve’s eyes promise revenge, his voice is quiet and tender as he cautions, “Breathe, ‘kay? It’s cold as hell, but it’ll feel real, real good.” 

“Gotcha”, Sam says and winks. 

Steve kneels between Sam’s spread legs. He places his small, lube-covered hands on Sam’s shaft and Sam _keels_ damn near off the fucking bed. The contrast of the heated throbbing of his flesh against the liquid coolness of the lube is strong and shoots straight up his spine in white-hot electric stimulation. As Steve immediately adds warming friction by fisting up and down Sam’s shaft, Sam’s eyes roll up and his lids shut tight. “Holy _shit_ , Stevie…” 

“Uh huh. See? See how ‘M gettin’ my revenge? Fuck you do to me? Uh huh. There you go.” 

“ _Yes_ , fuck…” Sam slurs as he thrusts his hips so he’s all but fucking into Steve’s hand. 

Steve smiles and just takes in the sight of his fella. Just about all over, Sam is larger than Steve-from the broadness of his chest and back to the quiet strength of his hands, he’s larger than Steve and coupled with the beautiful darkness of his skin, it takes everything in Steve not to cum then and there. Sam’s cock in his hands is pulsating and weeping onto his navel just as much as Steve’s is. The aroused flesh is a deep, deep dark red, with the head long-since purpled. His balls are drawn up tight, tight, tight and Steve can’t resist slicking those too. He takes extra-special care with getting the undersides, earning him a deep, breathless moan. Sam’s hands are bunched up in the sheets just like his were. His soft brown eyes are closed, fluttering behind his lids. He’s biting that plump lower lip, showing off that adorable gap in his front teeth and there’s a furrow in his brow as Steve’s hand moves just a little faster. 

Steve can’t help but lean forward and take Sam’s lower lip out of his teeth to capture it with his own lips. His fella kisses him back with shaky breath. He gives a few more, gently-squeezing strokes on Sam’s well-coated shaft and Steve moves up to his purpled head. This earns him a low, strangled moan and a string of profanities from Sam. 

“ _Shit_ , Steve. Okay, okay…okay. ‘Venge gotten. Revenge. You got it. Done deal. _Fuckin’ hell…_.” Sam pushes his hips upwards, thus fucking himself on Steve’s hand. 

Through the haze of his own painful arousal, Steve gives a mock innocent grin. “You sure? You sure I got that revenge down pat?” 

“Yes, yes, yes…just… _dammit_ , baby…” 

“Just want one thing, an’ I’ll stop my revenge”, Steve croons. He rubs his thumb in tight little circles over Sam’s weeping head, smearing the pre-cum around until it mixes and congeals with the lube. 

Sam’s eyes are shuttered. “What’s that?” 

“You…on top of me? Pretty please?” 

“…You just threw out my damn back like this and now you want me to be on top. I ain’t never heard of this…” 

“I love you.” 

“Yeah, uh huh. A’right, let’s switch…” 

Steve lets go of Sam’s shaft and they go back to how they were. Steve settles back against the warm pillows, legs spread and receptive for Sam’s hips once more. Sam settles himself comfortably within the cradle of Steve’s hips, the head of his cock poised at the other man’s entrance. They take a deep breath and then Steve is placing his hands on Sam’s shoulders, squeezing lightly in reassurance and Sam is using one hand to position his cock better. 

At the first touch of Sam’s head with Steve’s opening, it’s _hot_. So, so impossibly hot. They gasp and struggle to keep their hips from snapping forward for more contact. There’s a cautious pause and then Sam is pushing forward just a few centimeters. With each centimeter, their union becomes hotter and hotter, the heat centering where their bodies join. Sam breathes through his mouth as he keeps pushing, all while watching Steve’s face for any pain. Steve is so, so hot and so, so tight to the point where Sam has some trouble continuing to push forward. 

Sam feels so, so good inside of Steve. As Sam slowly pushes deeper and deeper, Steve is being gloriously stretched almost to capacity and the new, but wonderful, feeling of being full rushes even more blood to his cock if possible. He grips Sam’s shoulders tighter, but still careful of not digging his fingernails in. With every single inch he gets, he gets harder and harder and he doesn’t know if he’s going to manage once they start actually thrusting because this alone nearly shatters his mind with how pleasurable it is.

The air around them is now bordering on pungent with their mutual arousal and everything in-between; the sweat coating their bodies, sliding and dripping down their faces, mingling between their bodies and soaking into the bedsheets and pillows; their pre cum that continues to weep and weep, with Steve’s still coating his navel and Sam’s leaking into Steve’s hole; and their combined pheromones of want and desire and anticipation. 

“Hey…” Sam whispers in a strangled voice, “You…still alright? Talk t’me, baby.” 

Steve nods, his mussed hair being even messier against the soaked pillows. “Uh huh. Great. Fine. Wonderful. Keep…going. You feel great.” 

“Gotcha.” Sam keeps pushing. 

And soon, sooner than they both thought would happen, Sam is seated fully inside of Steve. They share a laugh at the impossibility of the moment. Their foreheads touch as they continue to laugh breathlessly. Sam runs a hand tenderly through Steve’s wet hair and Steve warmly cups Sam’s face. 

“I love you”, Steve whispers. 

“I love you, too”, Sam returns. 

Then Sam breaks just a little away from Steve, pulls his hips back, and pushes back in. They both groan at the friction and Sam appeases both of them by repeating the action. Not two thrusts later and Steve thrusts back, his hips meeting Sam’s each time. Sam angles his hips just so that his tip meets Steve’s prostate again, causing Steve to cry out and thrust back particularly hard. From there, they’re making love quick and fast, the sound of their hips slapping together creating a euphony of flesh slapping against flesh amid the rustling, shifting bedsheets and short, panting breath and tight, slick sliding of the union between their bodies. 

There’s a rumbling, a deep, deep rumbling, in their balls and in their bellies as they thrust harder and harder and go faster and faster. One…two…three…and they’re both exploding and imploding as a powerful orgasm tears through their bodies. They cry out, clutching at each other as Sam releases inside of Steve and Steve releases all over their stomachs, making a bigger, congealing mess of white fluid between their overheated bodies. 

Sam expends what little energy he has left to keep from collapsing onto his fella. Instead, he gently slips out of Steve and rolls to the side. Steve immediately scoots closer so that they’re snuggling flush against each other; Sam puts an arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders. 

Steve smiles softly and turns his head to kiss Sam’s bicep. “That…was good.” 

“Uh huh…” Sam takes a minute to catch his breath. “Real, real good. Best…tour guide you gave yet.” 

When Steve can next move, he bops Sam on the head with a pillow. 

-

“Sam, I don’t think I can do this.” 

Sam gently squeezes his partner’s hand. “Sure you can. I’ll be right there next to you the whole time, too. Just like I said. Remember?” 

Steve nervously looks back up at the building they’re standing in front of, the Hennessy Ballroom. All around them, other, excitedly-chattering couples go inside. It’s Tuesday, the day for nothing but dance lessons, lunch, and more dance lessons all for less than a couple of dollars per couple. Slow waltzing music wafts out of huge double doors and windows, enticing Sam and Steve to come in and learn how to step.  
They’re nowhere near in danger of being late to their lessons, but, still…

“Steve, I _promise_. I’ll be right there with you. The whole time. I’m learning too!” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t _count_. You told me you’ve danced once or twice before!” 

“So? That ain’t no substitute for actually learning. Plus I know I’ve forgotten a hell of a lot of it. I’m basically just as new to this as you are. Besides, we already paid with Bucky’s help. Can’t pay him back by not going in.” 

Steve turns betrayed eyes on his fella. “Do you know how fucking embarrassing it is to step on your partner’s toes every other damn second?” 

Sam gives it right back. “Do you know how wonderful it feels to know that your one and only fella is trying so, so hard to learn how to dance with you that they just keep stepping on your toes? Do you know how hard you have to try and do that shit? I tell ya, that warms my heart right up.” 

Steve does that goddamned blush that goes from the bottom of his neck all the way up to his ears. He nods slowly, boring a hole into Sam’s head. “…You’re a cheat, you know that? You just cheat all over the place.” He takes a deep breath. “Alright. Here we go.” 

Sam smiles so wide that his face just might split. “C’mon! We’re both gonna love it!” 

Like the other couples, they follow the waltzing music into the main foyer, down the halls and to one of the biggest dancing rooms either of them has ever seen. The light wooden floor is preened and polished to the point where the twinkling chandeliers above are reflected. Three of the four walls are merely floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Rails and chairs against the walls look comfortable. Most of the couples are either of two Colored people or include one White person like Sam and Steve. People set purses, jackets and the like on a section of chairs. There’s thankfully more than enough room for everyone to spread out and Sam and Steve watch curiously as people mingle and speak, some looking just as nervous as Steve feels. 

He really, really doesn’t like the mirrors. He grips Sam’s hand tighter and Sam squeezes back. Gently, he places his other hand over Sam’s Mark, feeling its warmth through Sam’s sleeve. As Sam is yet Unbonded his falcon is grey and Steve knows whoever is going to share the Mark with his fella is going to be one lucky son of a bitch, even with Sam choosing to remain in a relationship with him, relatively safely here in Harlem. Steve squeezes Sam’s forearm and Sam responds by lightly resting his head atop Steve’s. Steve relaxes. 

Their teacher comes in, a Ms. Luanne Griffons. Skin dark as ebony, brown eyes shining with passion and mouth open in a smile, she welcomes them. “Good afternoon and welcome to your first Hennessy Ballroom dance lessons! We’re all so glad you’re here and we’re eager to get started! Now first, is there anyone without a partner?” 

Ms. Luanne and her assistants look over the massive room inquisitively. Only about two or three are single and the assistants gladly partner with them. 

Ms. Luanne claps her hands once. “Well! Now that that’s done, the first rule of dancing that my very own parents taught me is to find and focus on your own rhythm. Though there are coordinated steps and moves, each dancer’s body has their own rhythm and it’s important not only to realize that, but to enjoy that. So! For the next several minutes, I want everyone to simply sway with their partner. Just gently sway and get into the feel of yours and your partner’s way of moving. Step, even, if you want too.” 

“Don’t worry about being in tune with the music or any other couple around you. Think of this as a warm-up. And also, I’m _quite sure_ that your partner will forgive you if you step on their feet more than once.” 

There’s a ripple of chortles through the ballroom and several glances are exchanged. Sam and Steve share a smirk. 

“Now…” Ms. Luanne switches the disc on the turntable to an even slower waltz. “Everyone grab your partners and start swaying!” 

Steve takes a deep, deep breath and whispers, “Here we go…” 

Sam smiles the fucking sun on him and turns both of them to face each other. “Here, let’s see if this helps…” 

He takes Steve’s hand in his left and guides Steve’s hand to his left shoulder. Sam then pulls Steve close to him and…

…They’re gently swaying. 

Steve swears he could go to sleep like this. But if he did, he’d miss this and, contrary to his fears before, there’s not a second that he wants to miss. He immediately cuddles his head against the warm comfort of Sam’s chest. Sam’s hand splayed across his lower back is firm, but gentle, a steadying presence that keeps Steve grounded and assuring him that he’s not dreaming. He closes his eyes as he listens to Sam breathe, slow and regular, until their breaths match. And it’s just like Sam to smell so fucking _good_ -Sweet Georgia Brown and just the general fresh, clean scent of Sam Wilson. 

Yeah, Steve can’t afford to go to sleep, but he sure as hell can wish to stay here. Stay here just like this forever… 

“Hey”, Sam’s whispering voice streams through Steve’s foggy consciousness. 

“Hmm?” 

“How many times have you stepped on my toes so far?” 

Steve smirks against his fella’s chest. “Just wait for when they start teaching us how to do the Lindy Hop and I’ll rack up that tally for ya.” 

Sam laughs softly and drops a kiss in Steve’s hair. “Make sure you rack it up high, ‘cause you’re losing ground here. Damn, Steve. Just never thought I’d have my toes so _un_ stepped on before. Shame, ain’t it?” 

“Sure is. But like I said, just wait for it.” 

“Wait for a long time, baby?” He pulls Steve even closer. 

“Yeah, sadly. A long, long time.” 

“Fine by me. Wait a long, long time, then…” 

_Wait a long, long time…_

-

 **East Harlem, New York 1940**

Sam sits on the floor between Steve’s legs as Steve gets ready to moisturize his hair.

Steve knows a lot of about Black folk’s hair. Knows that it ain’t just a simple wash, condition, _maybe_ comb/brush, and move on once a day. Knows that you don’t use one of them itty, bitty, tiny combs with the little teeth. Knows that Black women especially love and need silk pillows along with their hair wraps. Knows that, when doing a perm, it’s best to smooth the hair repeatedly with the back of a comb. Knows that, when moisturizing, it’s crucial to rub with gentle fingertips all the way through to the scalp. 

“Ready?” Steve asks as he finishes drying Sam’s hair and then drapes the towel over Sam’s shoulders. He then daps his fingers in Sweet Georgia Brown pomade oil and gets his fingers nice and coated.

“Sure am.” Sam leans farther back to give Steve as much access. 

A few seconds later, and Sam’s in a second kind of heaven as Steve gently begins moisturizing his freshly-washed hair. When washing and conditioning Sam’s hair earlier, Steve generously used his fingernails to cleanse it and Sam damn near fell asleep from how good another pair of knowledgeable hands in his hair felt. And now he’s probably going to fall asleep again with the pads of Steve’s fingertips going through his hair this time. 

As Tom fails to catch Jerry on the TV yet again, Steve’s fingers go in big-to-little circles over Sam’s scalp. He spreads his fingers out and it’s big, big circles over one side of Sam’s scalp, spreading and distributing the pomade deep into the roots. Then he pulls his fingers back into small, concentrated circles and back out again. In, out…in out…all over Sam’s scalp and hair until it’s newly moisturized. 

Nearly the whole apartment ends up smelling of that Sweet Georgia Brown. Sam and Steve sigh and relax even further. 

Eyes fluttering shut and words slightly slurring, Sam warns, “Just to let you know? If I fall asleep on you, it’s all your fault. I refuse to take any blame.” 

“Oh yeah? You fall asleep on me, then I’m at least not gonna tell you what happens at the end of this Tom & Jerry episode.” 

“Oh that’s how it is?” 

“ _Oh_ that’s how it is.” 

Sam chuckles.

The next day, Sam hands Steve his boar bristle brush. Sam’s always been able to tell that the brushing is Steve’s favorite part of taking care of his hair. Steve has a whole, drawn-out routine just for this part.

Sam once asked Steve what exactly it is that he loves about brushing his hair. A faint blush spread across Steve’s cheeks as he struggled to explain that it’s just never one, exact thing. He loves the soothing repetition of the _shreeuh_ sound as the boar bristles pass over Sam’s thick, coarse texture. He loves how, if he looks very, very, very closely with his weak eyes, he can make out the thousands upon thousands of tiny, spiral coils that make up the whole of the beautiful denseness. He loves being able to bury his nose in Sam’s hair the next day and still scent the pomade oil and the general cleanliness that stays for the whole rest of the week. He loves that, when the brush has a good anchor in Sam’s hair, the strands can be pulled and pulled and pulled without hurting Sam until they’re longer than Steve ever thought possible. And then, when he lets go with the brush, it bounces back into place like a spring. 

Steve loves a lot of things about Sam’s hair. Sam doesn’t quite understand it because, well…it’s just the hair that he was born with, the hair that’s been on his head and is going to stay on his head ‘till his dying day. It was just…his hair. But he doesn’t mind Steve’s blushing adoration. 

He starts on the right side of Sam’s hair and (Sam has quietly counted to himself every time they’ve done this) brushes exactly fifty times. 

Eleven…twelve…thirteen…fourteen…

 _Shreeuh…shreeuh…shreeuh…_ , goes the brush through Sam’s hair. 

_Shreeuh…shreeuh…shreeuh…_

…Fifty. 

And then to the left side, the same thing and in the middle, the same thing yet again. 

Thirty-four…thirty-five…thirty-six…thirty-seven…

_Shreeuh…shreeuh…shreeuh…_

On the fiftieth stroke, Steve leans back and declares, “All done!” 

But Sam is leaning his head against Steve’s knee and is fast, fast asleep. 

“Yep. Definitely not gonna tell you ‘bout the ending to this episode here. Ya sleepyhead”, Steve mutters.

Not wanting to disturb Sam, he doesn’t bother getting up to turn the TV off. Instead, he leans over to get the wooly throw and carefully drape it over Sam’s still form. He then leans to the side, props folded arms on the armrest, rests his head on his forearms…

…And both young men are fast, fast asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**East Harlem, New York 1942**

One evening, while enjoying a dinner of chitlins and beans at the Wilson household, Steve collapses.

Steve has gotten sick before. Sam and his family has long-since gotten used to all of Steve’s ailments and disabilities. Asthma. Hypertension. An incorrectly curved spine. Rheumatic fever. Colorblindness. And so, so much more. They’ve known what to do and how to do it for quite some time.

But Steve has never before collapsed the way he did that one evening. Steve has never been unresponsive for so long. Feverish for so long. Hyperventilating for so long. All that Sam had learned back at Howard wasn’t helping shit. Mama presses cool compress after cool compress to Steve’s overheated skin. Daddy mixes him tea with what little honey and lemon they have and other concoctions to ease Steve, all to no avail. Sam washes and changes the sheets as often as he can.

Calling a doctor is out of the question.

But something must be done. Something. Anything.

Sam barely hangs up the phone with Bucky before Charles and James rush over. Charles gasps loudly upon seeing his friend bedridden and looking damn near on the brink of death. James makes a choking sound that resembles trying to keep a sob down his throat. The whole apartment reeks of sick…sick Steve Rogers.

Daddy, holding yet another steaming cup of tea for Steve, engages in conversation with Charles.

James looks at Sam. Sam looks like he could give two shits about the fact that his bed is now occupied by a terminally ill person with no end in sight. Sam is, in fact, sitting in a rickety kitchen chair pulled up to the bedside. Food ration wrappers, books, and empty cups litter the area around Sam’s new designated living space. The man looks just about on the brink of death as Steve. Dark shadows are under Sam’s eyes, his goatee needs to be trimmed, and his back hunches too much for someone of his age and his eyes swim constantly with unshed tears. It looks like the only thing keeping him sitting up in that chair is the fact that there’s nothing to do but stay by Steve’s side unless and until they can find help for him.

James comes forward and gently squeezes Sam’s shoulder. He looks him right in the eye and says, “I’m going to go get help. You just stay with him, okay?”

If Sam had the energy, he would feel confused. Words slurring with grief and exhaustion, he asks, “Where…where are you gonna get help from?”

“You’ll see. I can’t promise anything, but just wait here.” He gives a final squeeze to Sam’s shoulder and notes how the rest of the room has gone quiet, save for Steve’s raspy, uneven breathing.

He straightens up and makes the same declaration to the room. A look that Sam doesn’t understand passes between James and Charles, making James say to Charles, “It’s fine. Really. This is more important.”

Charles looks…unconvinced, but nods.

And with that, James and Charles are gone to get whatever help they think they can bring.

Bucky, Natasha, Monica and Maria come over and…it’s all barely more than a blur to Sam. Two days have passed since Steve collapsed and it’s best for Sam’s sanity for it all to just stay a blur. The most recent, clear memory he has is of settling his head down onto Bucky’s warm lap for some semblance of sleep.

The rest of his memories are much, much too painful.

What few times Steve maintains consciousness, he’s halfway to delirious with fever. Mama can’t get him to tell her the month, where he is, his own name…nothing. It’s the times when Steve quietly whimpers for his Ma and Pa that makes Sam wants to tear down the already-peeling plaster of his apartment’s walls and then tear out his own hair. Every now and then, when Steve coughs, it results in spots of blood on Sam’s pillowcase. When their eyes are not shut from pure fatigue, everyone watches for the uneven rise and fall of Steve’s chest.

Rise and fall…rise and fall…

Sam doesn’t know what time it is when a small, meandering hand in his hair wakes him up. He groans as he slowly sits up from Bucky’s lap. Upon seeing who that hand is attached to, he wakes all the way up and leans over the bed.

Steve.

Steve, who looks damn near on his deathbed, is giving him that snerky-snarky grin that means he’s about to make a self-depreciating joke. Sam almost wants to let him because he knows it’s part of how Steve copes, but…but just once, for now, he wants to be selfish.

So he beats Steve to the curve and says, “Hey, baby. You…you look great. You’re alive.” He brushes Steve’s damp bangs away from his face with a smile that is a far, far cry from reaching his tearful eyes.

His fella is pale as hell, all the way down to his lips, which are the faintest pink Sam’s ever seen on someone. The smile he returns to Sam is lopsided and it looks like a Herculean effort to take form. Steve’s sky blue eyes are dull with pain, tiredness and sickness. But they stay focused on Sam’s face.

Steve’s throat scratches as he tries to talk. But Sam gently places his fingers on those pale lips, stopping whatever words were coming. He reminds himself to keep his voice down so as not to wake the others. “Shh, shh, shh…it’s alright, sweetie. It’s alright. Don’ try to talk, hear me? Help is…” Sam closes his eyes briefly, struggling to keep the tears from coming forth and spilling, then open his eyes and forces himself to continue. “Help is on the way. It’s coming. Just hang on a little longer, Steve. ‘Kay?”

But Steve only shakes his head against the pillow and lifts a finger in a ‘Wait a minute’ gesture. Tense, Sam waits for Steve to gather the energy to speak. And when Steve does speak, his words send Sam’s heart reeling straight out of his chest. “I…lo’ you. Jus’…know.”

Sam shakes his head just a little frantically and almost forgets to keep his voice down. “Hush. We got all day and the next and the next for you to tell me that shit. So hush and rest for now.”

Steve grins at him again and replies, “…Feel li’ shit.”

“Yeah”, Sam nods, “You look like shit, too-great shit, though. It’ll pass and you’ll be pretty and good as new soon.” He picks up the fresh cool compress on the nightstand and presses it to Steve’s perspiring forehead. “Now go to sleep, babe. It’s gonna be alright.”

Steve looks to be fighting his eyelids, like he doesn’t want to lose the image of Sam for any longer than necessary. But his lids win and he’s right back to that fitful sleeping. Sam does those inconsequential things again, those things that he’s been doing ever since Steve collapsed and hadn’t been able to get out of Sam’s bed. He pulls the sheets up higher on Steve’s chin…the sheets that are already tucked as closely as they could be. He adjusts the pillow. Brushes back those blond bangs. Dabs at the sweat on Steve’s heated face, neck and chest with a cool cloth that’ll need to be changed again come morning. Places his fingers right in the hollow of Steve’s throat, feeling for that carotid artery sluggishly pumping life through Steve’s body…and Sam’s heart, for that matter.

Sam doesn’t know what else to do but to snuggle his head into Bucky’s lap and fall asleep again. So he does.

When he’s next awoken, it’s to the smell of…whiskey or…bourbon…or possibly both.

As his eyes flutter open, he’s aware of Bucky’s hands absent-mindedly rubbing his back and shoulder and people talking in hushed, frantic voices above him. He sees Mama, Daddy, Maria, Monica, and Natasha all crowded in the bedroom, talking and gesturing. Actually sitting on the bed with Steve’s supine form is…a White man Sam is sure he’s seen somewhere.

The man sports a shock of black hair and a black goatee not all unlike Sam’s. His hands are large, but so, so gentle and sure as they find a vein on Steve and start an IV from there. Intent on his work, his eyes are a steel blue that exude just as much intelligence as Charles’.

Anthony Stark, of Stark Industries. The United States Army’s number one weapons contractor.

Sam blinks rapidly, trying to dispel what he’s positive can only be a hallucination. You can hallucinate when you go without sleep for long enough. That…that happens. Surely that’s what’s happening here.

But the “hallucination” suddenly turns those steel blue eyes on him and smirks. “Oh hey, it looks like the boyfriend is finally awake.” He nods at Sam. “Anthony Stark, nice to meet ya.”

Sam tries to sit up, but is stopped by Bucky’s gentle hands on his shoulder. “Shhh”, Bucky soothes. “He’s here an’ he’s helping. Even brought food. So it’s fine now and you can go back to sleep.” His hands try to coax Sam to lay back down.

But Sam, slowly and with joints that feel older than he is, sits up anyway. He stares as Anthony fucking _Stark_ finishes with the IV. He wants to demand how in the hell Anthony knows his way around an IV, but he’s too heavily gripped by incredulity and sorrow to do so.

Anthony, as though reading his mind, casually explains, “Mom used to work these things all the time. Showed me how. Then I started dating some hot Army nurses an’ here I am! Stickin’ a needle in your fella and making sure he gets to see the rest of the day, huh kid?”

Sam is vaguely aware of Bucky laying a comforting, steadying hand on his back. His voice is gravelly and nearly unrecognizable as he asks, “You…why are you…?” He trails off as the grainy sands in his throat make the words clog up on his tongue.

But Anthony seems to know what to do again; he takes a tall glass of water that Sam hadn’t noticed off the nightstand and hands it to Sam. “Here. I put this for your fella initially, but it’s been made clear to me that he’s not waking up any time soon. Everyone else is drinking or eating or they’re about to. So you drink up and take care of yourself. C’mon.”

Sam blinks uncomprehendingly at the glass of water. The more he wakes up, the more he can smell…food. Real food, actual food. Not food rations out of a government sanctioned package, but the kind of food his parents would cook. Slowly, he turns to look at his family and friends, all crowded in his tiny bedroom. There’s just that much more color to their skin, just a slight bit of hope to their eyes. Daddy is gone, though, probably out to the kitchen to fix his son a plate of food. Bucky’s hand is still on his back, now rubbing slow and deliberate circles. His eyes slowly trail back to Steve…who’s no longer coughing and looking just a little bit farther away from death than before. And his eyes are back up to the glass of water still proffered to him from Anthony’s hand.

Sam bursts into tears.

The whole room immediately moves to comfort him. He doesn’t know whose hands are in his hair, whose hands are on his shoulders, whose mouth is kissing his cheek or whose voice is repeating to him that it’s going to be alright…it’s going to be alright. All he needs is food, drink and proper rest in a bed and he’ll feel better soon. Steve will feel better too; Steve will most certainly still be here when he gets up again.

And, hell, Sam is so dog-tired that he can’t even muster any embarrassment from dissolving into a mess of sobs in front of damn near everybody he knows. At one point, he thinks he remembers the scent of whiskey getting stronger as a completely foreign set of arms wrap tightly around his shoulders and don’t let go for a long, long time.

After Daddy manages to get him to eat, take a bath, Sam finally crawls into his parents’ bed. He’s not allowed in the chair anymore, as it’s now occupied by rotating shifts-he thinks that, when his head hit the pillow, it was Natasha’s turn.

He’s awoken the next night by his Mama’s scream, followed by a harsh, resounding clang! throughout the whole apartment. Sam leaps out of bed as the sounds of shotguns cocking are heard. “Mama?! You alright?!”

There, in the middle of the crowded and rudely-awakened living room, is a tall White man lying on the floor. He’s on his back, clutching at his nose and moaning miserably. Mama is in a defensive stance, clasping the frying pan high over her head. Daddy stands in front of her, shotgun aimed at the strange man’s head and Bucky mirrors him with his own shotgun on the other side.

…The fuck…?

Sam takes a closer look at the man on the floor-

Sam rushes to cover the man with his body, shouting, “No, stop! It’s Steve, stop! Stop!”

Daddy’s voice is thunderous with rage and worry. “Sam, get up and get away from-”

“No, wait he’s right! Look!” Charles exclaims.

Daddy and Bucky slowly lower their shotguns…and then completely put their shotguns away when, they too, see it.

Steve.

Everyone else rushes forward and Mama drops the frying pan with a loud ka-clang. “Oh! Oh baby, I’m so sorry! I’m sorry baby! Jesus Christ!”

Sam stays poised protectively over Steve’s body. “Steve? Stevie, can you hear me? Here, lemme see…” He gently pulls Steve’s much, much longer hands away from his nose.

The tip is definitely red and there’s only a few droplets of blood coming out of his nostrils. He blinks those sky blue eyes several times in confusion, then focuses on Sam. His voice is just as deep as it was before and he grouses, “…Did you just…put your body between mine and shotguns?”

“Uhh…yeah. ‘Cause, you know, I’d kinda be sad if you got shot. I dunno ‘bout you, but that’d put a bit of a damper on my day, Steve. Jus’ sayin’.” Sam is so happy he could shout.

Steve frowns, then winces at his bloodied nose. “Yeah, okay. You ever think about how I’d get a bit of a damper on my day if you got shot? Like, it sorta kinda maybe goes both ways and you should be more considerate.”

“Well, when your body changes like this-for whatever reason-don’t go walkin’ ‘round the house when nobody knows what you look like.”

“I just had to piss! I didn’ mean to scare anybody!” Steve looks apologetically at Darlene Wilson. “‘M sorry, Mrs. Wilson. Real, real sorry. You got a good arm, though, with that frying pan. Real good arm. Think I’m gonna feel this for a few more days to come.”

Sam’s Mama still looks worried and apologetic. “Oh, honey…”

Natasha mutters, “…You’re both impossible saps. You and Sam.”

Anthony, slowly shaking his head, adds, “Welp. Looks like the sick kid is a sprout man.”

Maria exclaims, “Dios mio, it is a miracle that you’re alive and well Steve!”

Monica claps her hands together and whispers, “…It really is a miracle…”

Charles smiles and says, “It’s good to know I’m not yet losing a friend.”

James agrees, “You’re bigger, but this…this is good. You’re okay.”

“C’mon, let’s get you up”, Bucky says, his voice betraying his own tears of happiness.

Steve lives.

-

It takes a good while for everyone to get used to Steve’s new body. 

Especially for Sam. 

Most especially when it came to their sex life. 

They’re on their second round one night and Sam is taking his time surging back and forth between Steve’s new, bigger legs. He can’t take his eyes away from Steve’s face. Even with the broad, filled-in cheekbones, stout chin, and pinker lips…he’s still Sam’s Steve. He’s still the man he befriended and fell in love with not so long ago. He’s even bigger than Sam now with just a tad bit more muscle, too. Everywhere his hands touch on Sam’s body as they make love, the touch is impossibly warmer than ever and large. So, so large. Steve can now splay his hands to cover one of Sam’s palms with his own. 

And he does. Steve grasps Sam’s hand and brings it to his mouth so he can kiss along his knuckles as Sam thrusts inside of him. “You…still okay…with this?” 

“Yeah…still…okay. You’re okay, baby. Uh huh…” Sam leans down to nuzzle along that new jawline. A faint chuckle comes out of him as the beginnings of a beard tickle. 

They smile brightly at each other and continue until they reach a mind-blowing, mutual climax. 

He’s still his Steve.

-

 **The Tenderloin, 1943**

Sam and Steve enlist. 

Sam is set to be shipped at the end of the week on Friday and Steve’s date is set for next week, on Tuesday.

So, so many of their friends are already gone to training or the frontlines. They exchange letters until their hands cramp and the ink runs. To function day to day, they work hard to push back the memories of the goodbyes and focus on what they’ll do when they all come home. 

Because surely they’ll all come home. 

Sometimes, in their remaining time together, Sam and Steve do the right thing. They do those intimate, no-sex things that couples are supposed to do when they’re just about to say goodbye. They visit their beloved Glanden Park. They watch Oscar Micheaux movies. They stroll down their favorite streets. They sit on the couch or bed and talk for hours upon hours. 

But it’s not the same. Harlem, while the world is in the midst of World War II and with the absence of their entire crew is grey and unlit. So, so grey and unlit, a dreary storm cloud with no possibility of a sun behind its foggy depths. 

There are no longer any Harlem lights. 

So most times, Sam and Steve cheat. They cheat by making love all day, day in and day out. 

Sam is spread-eagled on the bed, face down in his pillow and about to drift off into dreams after one particularly long session of lovemaking. But he’s brought out of it by how cold and empty Steve’s side of the bed is. He hears some movement in the bathroom and he would usually go back to sleep, but…something is wrong. He can feel it. 

Very, very wrong. 

He climbs out of bed, unabashed about his nudity and heads for the bathroom door. It is locked. The moving around in the bathroom sounds more frantic, with something clattering to the floor. Sam, heart in throat, raises a hand to knock. “Steve? Steve, baby, is everything alright in there?” 

“I-it’s fine. Just…it’s fine. Just go back to sleep. I’ll be out in a minute.” Steve replies in a voice that tells Sam that it’s _not_ fine. 

Sam tries again. “Okay, well…how ‘bout a deal? I’ll go back to bed if you open the door.” No answer. “C’mon, Stevie. Just…just open the door for me so I can see you and know you’re alright.” 

“I…I’m alright, Sam. Just trust me on this.” 

“I _do_ trust you. I just want you to trust me back and open the door.” 

Sam’s alarm rises as Steve responds around a choking, heart-wrenching sob in his throat. “No, I can’t. I can’t…open the door.” 

The other man forces his voice to lower to a soothing cadence. He presses his hands flat against the door, as though he’s spreading them tenderly over Steve’s ridiculous pectorals. “Sure you can. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together. But we can’t do that unless you open the door, sweetie. C’mon, you got this. Just…open up for me.” 

The panic welling higher and higher in Sam’s chest puts him closer and closer to just breaking the damn door down.

Steve’s reply doesn’t help; Sam can tell that Steve is spilling tears in that bathroom. “No, Sam. I _can’t_. I…just go back to sleep. Please go back to sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep knowing that you’re crying!” 

“Yes you can! Just try!” 

“No, I’m not trying! Just trust me and open up! _Please!_ ” 

There’s nothing but silence on the other side of the door for a long, long time. And it is that silence that makes Sam panic to the point where he’s trembling where he stands. He’s about to beg for Steve to just open up to him again when Steve finally speaks. Steve’s voice is at once strangled and raspy. “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t make this up to you and I’m…sorry. So, so, so sorry…” 

The lock in the bathroom door gives a _click_ as it’s undone and Sam finds himself looking at something he never thought he’d ever have to see. 

_No…_

Now they both understand why Steve got sick and then got bigger. 

Steve was going through a metamorphosis that occurs for some people when they acquire Marks. 

_No, no, no…_

Steve stands there, just as unapologetically nude as Sam is, and he’s staring at Sam with red-rimmed, tearful eyes. 

_No, no, no, no…no, no…_

And there, on the inside of his right forearm is a beautiful, beautiful falcon. 

A beautiful, beautiful falcon identical to Sam’s.


	6. Chapter 6

**Los Angeles, California, Early November 2014**

Steve’s Mark finishes forming. 

And it’s the most perfect Mark he’s ever seen. 

It is a falcon. 

Its position is so that the viewer sees the side of it. The eye is fierce and focused, like it’s honed in on prey and is ready to swoop down at a moment’s notice. Extended wide, the wings are made up of a plethora of intricately-designed feathers all facing the same direction. Its clawed feet are extended, curved and razor sharp. Out of its open beak, Steve can imagine a proud, fearsome battle cry.

As soon as it finishes forming atop his scar, Steve kisses it reverently and calls Dr. Fury’s office. 

Dr. Fury lets him have the first appointment of the morning. 

Steve is nothing but a bundle of nerves and excitement and hope and worry to the point where Bucky has to drive him. Bucky keeps his left hand, his prosthetic hand, on the steering wheel, with his other hand tightly holding Steve’s. His thumb rubs soothing circles over Steve’s white knuckles. Steve could never articulate how grateful he is for the comfort and support. 

Neither one of them say anything-there’s nothing _to_ say. Nothing to say or do at all, but continue driving (within the legal speed limit…dammit, _no_ , Stevie) to Dr. Fury’s clinic. Even when they arrive, sign in and sit down to wait to be called to an exam room, Bucky doesn’t let go of him. Steve struggles to keep his body in-check as they wait for what feels like forever. Stop bouncing his leg. Stop popping the juicy fruit gum Bucky shoved into his mouth. Stop shifting on his chair. 

Calm…calm…he’ll find out soon. He’s waited for seven years for this moment. 

Seven. Goddamned. Years. 

But he can’t stand to wait just a few more minutes. The longer he waits, the more and more his Soulmate is out there, quite possibly all alone and most certainly without him. The longer he waits, the more time he has to worry that he won’t be able to properly apologize. 

His dreams were never clear. Never, ever clear. They were little more than bright shadows singing and dancing pure beauty across his closed lids. 

Bright shadows. 

And when Steve awakens, there are only faint, faint precious remembrances that he gets to keep. Someone smiling as they feed birds. Someone laying close against his shoulder as he draws and paints. Someone pressing him deep, deep into a bed as they make love to him, whispering his name over and over again reverently until, in his sleep, Steve is practically ghost-fucking his mattress. Someone holding his hand, laughing and pointing at…something…as they ride a subway station together. 

Someone. 

Someone he loves very, very much and, hopefully, they him. 

Only one memory-just one-stands out in surety in Steve’s mind. But he won’t voice it out loud. No, not until Dr. Fury sees him. 

They finally get to see Dr. Fury. The man is grayer now, with new, faint lines of age around his mouth and eyes. But his eyes are sharper than ever, with just that hint of concern and compassion that Steve’s never forgotten. Steve wordlessly rolls up his right sleeve and proffers his right arm to the doctor. 

“Well, you’re certainly not wasting any time today, are you, Mr. Rogers?” Dr. Fury sports a tiny smile as he gets out the Mark scanner for his patient. 

Bucky sits beside Steve, holding his other hand. “No sir, he’s not. He even wanted me to speed to get here.” 

Dr. Fury shakes his head and positions Steve’s arm under the green light. “All I can say to that is that I’m not liable for the ticket that would’ve caused.” 

Bucky and Dr. Fury laugh, but Steve is too tense to join them. He stares at the screen as the green light of the scanner goes over his arm thrice, and then releases a cheery _beep-beep_. 

“Breathe, son”, the doctor counsels, noting Steve’s bated breath and trembling. 

Steve tries to obey as he watches the screen run through more than one-thousand Marks per seconds. He stares at that progress bar as though the mere force of his gaze can make it go faster. 

Another cheerful _beep_ and Steve’s heart stops at what the screen reads. 

_Matching Mark Found_

_Soulmate: Samuel Thomas Wilson_

Steve leans forward to touch the name. His fingertips are tender and gentle, as though the name is the person themselves. Three words, six syllables on a screen…that denotes his Soulmate. His beloved, long-lost Soulmate. Tears, sharp and searing, come to his disbelieving eyes and he doesn’t bother wiping them away. 

“Sam”, he whispers, still touching the name. 

Vaguely, he’s aware of Bucky rubbing his back and holding back tears himself. 

Dr. Fury’s voice is quiet. “You remember anything we can use? Anything to bring you guys to, perhaps, the place where you two were together in the first place?” 

Oh, yes. It’s the only remembrance Steve has. 

“Harlem”, Steve says, “We were together in…in Harlem.” 

Harlem. 

-

 **Washington D.C, Early November 2014**

Sam’s never been difficult to wake up. Hell, he even borders on being a light sleeper. In fact, this is one of the very, very rare mornings where he sleeps in past eight o’clock. Army training does that to you. 

But for whatever reason, Riley sees it fit to barrel through their shared apartment, yelling at the top of his lungs for Sam to wake the fuck up and throw some clothes on. He barges into a grumpily-woken Sam’s room, waving the house phone around. 

Sam grumbles as he sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Riley…the hell you want-”

“Get up! Wake up! It’s Dr. Ross on the phone!” 

At that, Sam freezes and stares at one of his best friends like he’s never seen him before. He’s not…he wouldn’t…

Riley loves practical jokes and pranks, but he’d never go this far. He’s seen first-hand the hell Sam has been put through all these years. All these _seven_ years. He cringes against his pillows, like the phone held up in Riley’s hand is going to deal a major blow to him. It was years ago when he finally lost all hope for anything to happen-for anyone to turn up-and he lost that hope because the only other alternative was to not live his life at all. 

Whoever shared his Mark just didn’t want him, didn’t care about him. 

But now Riley is holding that phone and…

Maybe…just maybe he could dare to hope again…maybe he could dare to wonder and daydream again. 

Because god knows his dreams haven’t stopped regardless. 

Riley’s voice is soft and gentle, with his eyes perceptive to Sam’s turmoil. He comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside his best friend and offers him the phone again. “Hey, c’mon. I wouldn’t fuck with you like that. You know that. This is real, man. I promise you. Just…just take it and say hello.” 

“…You mean it?” Sam’s hands clench in his comforter and don’t move to take the phone. 

“I promise.” 

Sam takes the phone with shaking hands and, in an unsure voice says, “Hello?” 

“Yes, is this Sam Wilson?” After seven years, Dr. Ross’ voice saps any and all energy out of Sam’s body. 

“Yes, ma’am, this is he.” 

“Hey there and good morning to you! I’m calling you with some great news! We found your Soulmate! Would you like to come in and see our findings, or would you like me to just tell you over the phone? It’s your choice, Sam.” 

“I…may I come in? And see? I…I just need to be sure.” 

“Sure you can! How soon do you think you can come in? We’ll fit you into our schedule.” 

“May I come in…right now? I just…I need to see it with my own eyes.” 

“Of course! Come on in and we’ll let you see for yourself.” 

Sam is in a daze the whole drive over. Riley has to drive them and, to fill up the despairing silence that permeates the car, Riley talks about anything and everything. Sam only half-pays attention, his dark brown eyes drifting to look out the window at the passing scenery of their neighborhood. All he can think about are his dreams. 

The dreams that show him deeply and profoundly in love with someone…someone that flickers at the edge of his consciousness like bright shadows.

Bright shadows. 

And when he awakens, all he’s left with is painfully faint wisps of memory of that someone. Someone holding him close-oh so close-as they slowly sway and step to music. Someone _scritch-scratching_ over and over again on paper while he watches. Someone lovingly taking his arm and guiding him safely home. Someone lying with him and watching clouds go by overhead. 

Someone. 

Someone who, surely, no longer loves him, or worse, never loved him at all in the first place. 

There is only one thing that strongly stands out to him in those dreams, in those memories anyway. Just one, single thing and Sam’s convinced that it’s something that won’t matter anyway. 

But Dr. Ross wouldn’t call him into her office if…if his Soulmate truly didn’t want anything to do with him, if his Soulmate didn’t want to meet with him. Maybe…

They’re in an exam room with Sam’s doctor before they know it. 

Dr. Ross gives him that knowing, sympathetic smile that hasn’t changed in seven years. “Are you ready, Sam?” 

Sam nods and lies, “I’m ready.” 

Riley climbs up onto the exam table behind him and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders. “It’s alright- _you’re_ alright.” 

Sam lets Dr. Ross position his left arm under the green scanner. The green light goes over his Mark thrice, and then there’s a cheery _beep-beep_. As the screen starts to run through Mark after Mark, Sam swears he would collapse onto the floor right then and there if it weren’t for Riley’s comforting, steadying presence at his back. 

There’s another _beep_ and Sam’s heart stops upon reading what the screen says. 

_Matching Mark Found_

_Soulmate: Steven Grant Rogers_

Sam just stares at the name for a long, long time. He looks back down at his Mark and says nothing. 

It’s a long, long time before Dr. Ross breaks the silence. “Sam? I know how you’re feeling, but I do need to also disclose to you that your Soulmate is what we call a reincarnated cut, sweetie.” 

Sam and Riley’s eyes snap to the doctor. Sam asks, disturbed and halfway sure he doesn’t want to know, “What’s a ‘reincarnated cut’?”

Dr. Ross explains what it means and why someone would have it done. When she’s finished, Sam can’t quite remember the last time he felt so nauseated that the room appeared to spin. 

“He…” Sam sniffles as tears, full of grief and shame, come to his eyes, “Of course he’d do something like that-”

“No, Sam. No. Remember what I told you about seven years ago? Remember? None of that has changed- _none_ of it. I’m more than certain they want you very, very much-”

“Doc. He got our Mark _cut_. He got it cut out of his body and-”

“Because, as I said, he was most likely just trying to protect you by hiding the fact that you share a Mark. And there were reasons of all kinds all throughout history for why that had to happen.”

“Oh yeah? And what if I’m a special case? What if they just really didn’t want me that bad?” 

“Marks don’t make mistakes like that, honey. They don’t. It might’ve been the wrong time and the wrong place. But as long as I’ve been in this field and long before that, it’s never been the wrong person.”

“She’s right, man”, Riley supplies quietly, arms still tight around Sam’s shoulders. 

Before Sam can rebut again, Dr. Ross points to a spot on the screen below Sam’s Soulmate’s name. “And look. They want to meet you. That part of why I called you at all, honey. They want to see you.”

Sam stares at the little checkmark on the screen. “…Why?” 

Riley snorts, “So they can punch you in the face for being such an unbearable jackass.” 

Dr. Ross gives him a stern look, and then turns to Sam. Her voice is still impossibly gentle. “So they can reunite with you and see you again. You two are reincarnated Soulmates given another chance to be together in a somewhat-safer world. This is the way it should be.” She leans forward to take his left hand in hers and squeezes. “They want and miss you. Very much. Please say you’ll meet them.” 

Sam looks at the name again. _Steven Grant Rogers_. That checkmark…maybe…just maybe…

He looks back at Dr. Ross and quietly speaks of the one remembrance that stands out to him, “Can it be…in Harlem? Out of everything, I remember being with them in Harlem the most.” 

Dr. Ross beams. “You know, that’s exactly what they said too.” 

Harlem.

-

 **The Tenderloin, 1943**

Somehow Sam and Steve put on clothes. 

Somehow Sam and Steve move to the main living room. 

Somehow Sam and Steve keep from collapsing onto the floor. 

Somehow Sam and Steve can still see through their tears. 

The only sounds in the whole of the Rogers-Barnes apartment are of Steve moving swiftly, taking out any and all hidden stashes of meager money. He stuffs the crumpled bills and the stained coins into one of his few raggedy, old jackets with the uneven lapels. A few pennies and nickels under the couch’s left cushion. Three dollar bills in the bottom part of the nightstand. One five-dollar bill way, way in the back of a kitchen cabinet. There’s not a place that Sam doesn’t know about…and so there’s not really a reason why Sam can’t help Steve gather the money quickly. 

Except Sam can’t move. A deep, paralyzing numbness has taken over his mind and his body. He has no idea what has happened to his heart. He has no idea if it’s…if it’s fear or anger or sadness or shock that’s made him so numb to the point where he can’t move to help his fella. Sam knows that he’s going to explode and implode at the same time if he tries to find out. All that he can manage is to follow Steve’s frantic scrapping-together of money with the burning wells that are his eyes. 

Somehow, he finds his voice to say, “…So you’re gonna be the one to do it, huh?” 

Steve pauses in the act of pillaging one of Bucky’s old shoeboxes for dimes. He turns to look at his fella and the sight of Sam makes his heart plunge down into his stomach and his soul rip away to splatter somewhere else. Sam is leaning heavily against the wall. His hands rest idly at his sides, not even clenched in anger. He barely looks to be breathing, yet completely undisturbed by the possibility of oxygen deprivation. And his eyes…his eyes are red-rimmed and they’ve spilled so, so many tears that the tear tracks on his face have congealed until they’re nigh indistinguishable from each other. And unlike Steve, Sam hasn’t bothered to wipe at his face once. 

Sam just stares at Steve, eyes deceivingly apathetic. 

With trembling hands, Steve lets the shoebox drop carelessly to the floor and stands up. He wipes again at his own tears and doesn’t care that it’s a futile effort-he’ll break something if he doesn’t have anything to do with his hands. He struggles to make his voice steady and sure. “Sam…please. Your Mark is the one that's already been registered anyway. And there’s no time.” 

At that, Sam gives a delirious snicker, eyes briefly alighting with a glee he doesn’t feel. “Oh yeah? That’s why you locked yourself in the bathroom not two hours ago?”

Steve rushes to apologize. “I know. I’m sorry. That was carele-”

Sam waves Steve’s words away. He wraps his arms around his body and squeezes, hands rubbing his upper arms. “I know there’s no time, Steve. I know the logics of this. I’m not stupid.”

“No, no, no. Of course you’re not stupid. Far from it. I didn’t mean that, baby. I didn’t.” Steve moves slowly towards Sam, hands instinctively outstretched to comfort. He really, really can’t stand those tears. 

Sam doesn’t respond, just furrows his brow at an imperceptible spot on the stained carpet. Steve takes the opportunity to move closer, hands still outstretched and aiming for Sam’s face. Sam does nothing as Steve carefully places his hands, warm and _not_ shaking, atop his over his biceps. Steve decides that he’ll work his way up from Sam’s arms to his tear-stained face. He rubs up and down and says, “Don’t worry. We don’t really need this Mark. We were just fine without it and we’ll be fine after this. We’ll both come home from the war and this will be just a…a bump. A bump in the road. It’ll be over-”

With a surge of anger, Sam roughly shoves Steve away from him. He snaps, “Don’t you comfort me! Don’t you fucking comfort me, you son of a _bitch_! _You’re_ the one that’s getting cut! What the hell are you even doing?!” 

Steve stumbles back from the force of Sam’s push. It wasn’t nearly hard enough for him to fall to the floor, but Steve is breathless with pure shock and hurt anyway. The air in his lungs is just gone and he’s staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at a Sam that’s glaring slow, painful death at him. 

Sam trembles as he grits out through his teeth, “If this was different? If, when they find out, they were just gonna blow your brains out and leave me alone? If it was just your life? You wouldn’t give a fuck, would you?” Sam impatiently swipes a hand across his wet face. “You wouldn’t be doing this right now. You wouldn’t mind a damn bit.” 

The new, low, low blow drops into the air between them like a dirty bomb. 

Steve is breathless again, but this time with the force of a truck ramming into his chest. It’s too late at this point to try to stop any tears…much, much too late at this point. But Steve tries anyway because…because this is Sam. His Sam. Voice breathy and quiet, he says, “No, I would care. I would care and I would do this, just the way I’m doing this right now.” He sniffles heavily and wipes at his eyes. “Because if it meant that I could stay alive and stay with you, Sam, I would still do it.” 

He comes closer again and his voice is more strangled. “I don’t want to die, Sam. I don’t want to leave you. I just…I just don’t want you to die and/or get hurt. I can’t…bear that…any more than I know you can’t bear this.” 

All the anger deflates out of Sam and he sags against the wall. He looks at his fella in horror, red-rimmed, teared-up eyes round and aghast. “Oh god…Steve. I’m sorry. I…I didn’t…I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” 

And Sam is repeating the apology over and over again. And Steve is rushing forward to clasp his fella to him in a tight, tight embrace. Sam clings just as tightly to Steve, fingers bunching in his shirt and fresh, burning tears fall on his back and shoulder. Steve returns the same kind in fresh, burning tears on Sam’s back and shoulder. 

“I’m sorry”, Sam whispers again. 

“Please, no. Please don’t apologize. We’re both just scared.”

“Yeah, and this is the last time we’re gonna see each other for a good, long while. And look what I just said…” 

“Shh. We both know you didn’t mean it. It’s alright. It really is.” 

Sam sniffles long and deep and buries his face in his fella’s shoulder. He whispers brokenly, “I just don’t want you to go. I don’t want them to dig a scalpel in you and…and…” He trails off at the grotesque images in his head and hugs Steve even tighter, as though the tighter he makes his grip, the more he can prevent the inevitable from happening. 

Steve holds Sam tighter too. “I know…believe me, baby, I know. But guess what?” Reluctantly, he pulls away from Sam and uses his thumbs to finally wipe away at those tears. “This is all gonna be over before we both know it.” 

Sam gently catches…Steve’s right wrist in his left hand. There can be no touching of palms, no interlacing of fingers. Their Mark burns like dry ice against Sam’s hand, but he continues, “Didn’t I just tell you to stop comforting me, since it’s _you_ that’s going to do it?” 

Steve’s sky blue eyes search Sam’s dark brown ones. Quietly, he speaks the truth, “I can’t. I love you.” 

“I love you more.” 

“You can’t-I said it first.” 

Sam can’t quite believe he’s laughing through tears at a time like this…but he laughs anyway. “Oh yeah? Well, everyone has to go back to the back of the line at some point, Steve. Just to let you know.” 

Steve laughs with Sam and sniffles. Then he’s wiping at Sam’s tears again with his thumb, unminding of Sam’s left hand on his right wrist. “Yeah…yeah, I guess we have to.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath…a breath not unlike when he was still small and asthmatic. “It’s going to be okay. I’m just gonna go get this done, then we’ll…we’ll be deployed and come right back home to each other. With everyone else, too.” 

“And…and pick up right where we left off?” 

“Just like that, yeah. Even if it’s not exactly the same as it was before, we’ll pick right up.” 

“I don’t care if it is the exact same way, Steve. I don’t give a shit. Just so long as we’re together, I…I think we can handle this. I think we can do this.” 

“Me too.” 

They share a look…a look that’s all the talks and adventures and musings and years and everything else in-between they wish they had together. Their eyes are no less wet, their hearts are no less terrified and their souls are no less shredded. But it is within that look that they share it all…all of it that they cannot share otherwise. 

Sam declares, low and forceful, “I love you, Steve Rogers. No matter what, don’t you forget that.” 

Steve gives a wet smile and returns, “I love you, too, Sam Wilson. So, so much.” 

They share another tight, bone-bending, air-crushing hug and a wet, sloppy kiss made of desire and desperation. It will be their last one for a long, long time. 

Sam lifts a hand to stroke at Steve’s hair. “You’re gonna be okay, understand? You’re gonna be just fine. Just…just think about all the shit we’ll do once we come back home.”

“And you’ll be safe. You keep thinking of all the things we’ll do too, okay?” 

“I will.” 

“Good. Do…do you wanna go to your parents’? I can…” Steve sniffles, then tries again. “I can walk you there-”

“No. I…kinda don’t think it’ll be a good idea to be around them…” 

“Oh yeah. Right. I…didn’t think about that.” 

“It’s alright.” A beat of silence. “How about…I get to helping you finding more money ‘round this place?” 

“Yeah, I…yeah.” 

In the end, they scrape together about thirty dollars in ten minutes to help Steve find and pay someone to tell him where to get cut. 

One last, close hug and one last, close look…and Steve is gone. And Sam, because continuing to be numb is not an option, he gets up and starts packing for his shipping out. 

There is nothing else to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special warning for the mutilation/body horror in this chapter, darlings.

Steve clutches the uneven lapels of his jacket with one hand while he bangs and bangs and bangs Anthony’s door.

“Anthony! _Anthony_ , open up! It’s Steve Rogers, I need your help! Open up!” 

He should give a damn about being more discreet because he probably looks like a madman. It’s in the late hours of the night; he’s clearly dressed to show he’s from the poorer parts of the Tenderloin and loudly banging on an obscenely rich man’s door for the past thirty seconds. All there needs to be now to complete the picture is rain so Steve can be soaked while looking like a madman. 

He would care more if Sam’s life didn’t have a timer on it. 

“Anthony?! Are you in there?!” 

Another moment passes and Steve can hear footsteps coming closer to the door. He doesn’t bother with the polite thing by ceasing his pounding on the door-he can’t risk to have whomever is inside thinking that he doesn’t need them to get him Anthony Stark. 

Steve nearly falls flat on his face when a very peeved and bewildered man answers the door. He’s clearly not Anthony.

He raises a disapproving, but concerned, eyebrow at Steve. “Young man, whatever is the matter? You do realize what hour it is?” 

Steve is rude again and steamrolls past an apology. “My name is Steve Rogers. I need to see Anthony Stark. Please, it’s urgent.” 

“I am quite sure it is, sir. But Mr. Stark is currently sleeping and as he does not usually sleep well, I would ask that you-”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave. I need his help. Now.” 

Maybe it’s the tense, yet defeated slouch of Steve’s shoulders. Maybe it’s the fearful desperation in Steve’s eyes. Maybe it’s the trembling in Steve’s mouth. Maybe it’s the firmly rooted stance Steve’s feet take on the stoop. 

Maybe it’s all of those things and more, or none of those things. But the man in front of him hesitates, eyes softening and mouth untightening, before insisting that Steve leave again. 

Steve takes the advantage. Breathless, he pleads, “Please let me in. I…someone really doesn’t have time. I swear I’ll be gone before you know it. Just…please let me in.” 

The man is about to answer, when he’s interrupted again. “The fuck is it now? Who is it Jarvis?” 

The person Steve came to see trudges up behind the man now identified as Jarvis. Anthony truly did just roll out of bed. His black hair is little more than a sloppy bird’s nest and he has a day or two worth of stubble. The thick, plain velvet robe he wears is tied sloppily at the waist and he scratches at his stomach through the material. Steve can hear his bare feet dragging against the tiles. 

Anthony’s eyes are bloodshot. 

When he can see who it is over Jarvis’ shoulder, his brows lift and a tiny smile graces his face. “Oh. It’s the sprout man, huh? Whaddaya want kid?” 

Steve, about to collapse from sheer relief, says, “I need your help. I don’t have time.” 

As Anthony wakes up more and more, he glimpses the rank _fear_ in Steve’s teary eyes. The smile slips away from his face and his eyes take on a…strange empathy. Jarvis is already moving to the side of the door when Anthony says, “Yeah, alright. C’mon in out of the cold. C’mon.” 

Steve rushes inside as Anthony turns to Jarvis and asks, “Jar, could you make our friend here a cup of tea please? Uhh…” He scratches at his hair, further changing it from a bird’s nest to a whipped hurricane. “Jasmine? That’s the shit that calms?” 

Jarvis smiles softly at Steve. He responds, “Yes, sir. Two cups of calming jasmine tea?”

“Naw, I’m…” Anthony trails off as he gives two big yawns. “…Calm enough. Fuckin’ half ‘sleep, too. Kid, c’mon. We’ll get you comfortable an-”

“With all due respect, I appreciate the offer. But I really, really don’t have time for-”

Jarvis is already heading in the direction of what must be the kitchen and Anthony turns on him. His much too sleepy and yet perceptive at the same time, he grouses, “You got _time_ to tell me what you’re here for?” 

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”

“Then you got time to calm the hell down so you can articulate it to me and I can actually help you.” 

“I can tell you just fine. We can just stand here and I can tell you what-”

“Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are dilated. You look like you’re about to collapse in on your own goddamn skeleton. _I_ , as you might’ve guessed, I just got very-rudely woken up by a kid banging the holy hell out of my door at about two o’clock in the morning. It’s already a fucking marvel that I get to sleep at all at this hour and I don’t feel like picking your ass up off my floor. You’re not exactly tiny anymore, anyway. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to stand in one of my foyers with a kid that’s a mess of anxiety.” 

Anthony waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “You’ll drink tea. You’ll sit the hell down and breathe for a minute.” He rubs at his bloodshot eyes. “And for god’s sake, give me just another minute to wake the hell up. Got it?” 

With a deep, shuddering breath born of impatience, Steve bites his tongue and nods. Anthony nods back curtly and leads the way to what has to be one of the Stark mansion’s many private studies/offices. Their steps echo quietly as they move and Steve thinks on how, in just about any other circumstance, he would be able to appreciate what has to be the luxurious beauty of the other man’s home. Hell, maybe be able to make a snarky quip or two on rich White boys up the state and share it with Sam-

But that can’t happen. Maybe not ever again. 

He pushes the thought away before he goes into a full-blown panic attack and Anthony really does have to pick him up off the floor. 

Anthony leads him to a study that’s incredibly cozy and tastefully decorated. It’s bigger than the entire apartment Steve grew up in. The walls are done in what has to be dark oak panels and the wooden floor is so shiny and polished that Steve has to be careful not to slip. To the right is a huge window overlooking the side and front of the Stark estate. On either side of the window are two massive, towering bookshelves heavily laden with enough books to fill a small library. To the right is a heavy oak desk cluttered with papers with…things on them that Steve will probably never understand. Behind and a little to the right of the desk is a fireplace that somehow already has a merrily-crackling fire. In the middle of the room, directly across from Steve are two, large plush armchairs facing turned towards each other. In the middle of the armchairs is a small table which would look good with a small plant atop it but, instead, sports even more of those chaotic papers. Behind the armchair furthest from the door is an end table holding a decanter of scotch and three sparkling glasses. 

“Sit”, Anthony says simply as he puts a fresh log on the fire. 

Steve, knowing that further resistance will only make this take longer, carefully sits down in the armchair closest to the door. He was right to be careful-his ass isn’t used to such plushness and if it weren’t for the springs, he’d feel like he was sinking right beneath the floor. With shaking hands, he checks that he still has the measly money in his jacket. It is still there. He turns his head to watch Anthony poke at the fire. 

By the time Anthony walks over to plop in the opposite armchair, Steve already feels a modicum of calmer from watching the fire. And with that calm, comes just a modicum of apologetics. He glances at the other man, watching him lean over the arm of the chair and rub severely at his bloodshot eyes. 

Steve’s voice is just slightly sheepish as he asks, “…I take it you were sleeping for a long time before I came along?” 

A combination of a snort and a snicker comes out of Anthony’s mouth. “Huh. Wasn’ sleeping long, but I _was_ sleeping good.” 

“I’d tell you I’m sorry for that, but I’m-”

“I know. In a rush. Jarvis is on his way, alright?” 

“Alright.” 

Indeed, Jarvis comes in at just that moment. He bears a silver tea tray and sets it demurely on the table in front of Steve. “Will that be all for you, Mr. Rogers?” 

Steve nods and gives a small smile to the kindly butler. “Uh, yes sir. Thank you.” 

“Very well. And Mr. Stark, as you’ll notice, I have placed a cup for you as well. Though historical precedent says you will not, I believe you would do well to take the suggestion to indulge in it.” 

Anthony rubs at his eyes again and gives the most _sarcastically bright_ , close-mouthed grin to Jarvis. He even bats his eyelashes. “Suggestion noted, Jarvis. Thank you kindly.” 

Jarvis gives much the same grin right back and exits the room. 

Anthony leans out of the chair and pushes the tea tray closer to Steve. “Drink. Then talk.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Steve pours himself a steaming cup. Adds sugar. Stirs. Drinks. It’s delicious, probably perfectly brewed for all Steve knows about tea. The tea actually does turn that modicum of calmness into a handful. Steve’s shoulders loosen and he sinks against the armchair’s soft back. His breathing slows and deepens just a little. 

Alright, maybe this was a good idea after all. 

With a raised eyebrow, he shows the bottom of the emptied tea cup to Anthony. Anthony nods resolutely and asks, “So what do you need?” 

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “I need to know where I can go to get my Soulmate Mark cut out. And I need a place that can do it fast. Please, it’s Sam that’s in danger here.” 

A brief silence, still and stifling, blankets the study. Anthony breaks it with a furrowed brow and a yawn and it’s gone as quickly as it came. But it was there. 

“What makes you think I of all people know a place that cuts?” 

“Because you knew enough where to get that medicine that saved my life. You knew where to go during wartime rations and you got it to me in time. So I figured you have to know more…you have to know someone that cuts and cuts quickly. I _know_ you do.” 

For a long, long moment, Anthony just stares at Steve. Those steel blue eyes bore into Steve’s head with an intensity that would make Steve shrink against the plush chair in any other circumstance. Yet, at the same time that it’s intense, there’s…something so far, far away about the stare. A thousand yards away. Like Steve’s words have carried Anthony to a place that he never wanted to visit again. 

Steve is about to be rude and bark that Sam doesn’t have time to waste when Anthony suddenly gets up from his chair. He circles around it to the round table behind and indulges himself in the scotch. One, two, three, four glasses he downs. On each heavy, burning swallow, his eyes roll upwards and his lids close. His shoulders shudder with uneven breaths. When Anthony is done, he doesn’t let go of the scotch glass and braces himself heavily against the table. He squeezes his eyes shut and rocks lightly on the balls of his feet. 

Struggling to keep patience in his voice, Steve grouses, “Anthony, if you don’t know, then tell me who-”

“No, I know. I know. Of course there’s no time and I am truly sorry. I…I’m truly sorry.” Anthony, eyes still closed, waves a hand placatingly. 

When he next opens his eyes, he’s boring those eyes into Steve’s head again. Another second and he’s undoing his robe. Seeing Steve’s confusion and growing agitation, he murmurs, “Just bear with me. You need to understand. You and Sam might deal with it better if you do.”

Steve’s eyebrows damn fly into his hairline as Anthony shrugs off the left part of his robe off his shoulder. He turns his back to Steve-

A ghastly, circular scar mars the skin of Anthony’s upper left back. It takes up nearly the entire space between his shoulder and shoulder blade. The mutilated flesh is an angry dark pink, a puckered and uneven keloid. Even from where he sits, Steve can make out how the scar is shaped in a perfectly even circle. And it’s a deep _carving_ in Anthony’s skin. A very, very deep carving, like a crater that will never be filled again. 

Slowly, he gets up and walks towards Anthony. His hand hovers over the scar, but respectfully doesn’t touch. He can’t find his voice as his eyes continue to examine the marred flesh. 

Anthony’s voice is quiet, almost strangled. “It was about eight years ago. I can still feel it, though…I’m still physically sore. I stopped bothering with taking pills for it a long time ago. But Jarvis still makes me drink tea.” He pauses, and then gives a self-depreciating laugh. “You can tell I kind of prefer scotch to tea, can’t you?” 

Steve’s hand hovers over the scar for just a second longer. His hand goes to his own Mark on his arm, instinctively covering it. “Who…how…?” 

The smile Anthony gives Steve over his shoulder reeks of bitterness. Of anger. Of grief. His eyes are more than a little wet. “You know him. He’s actually one of your closest friends. You call him ‘James’. I call him ‘Rhodey’.” 

For a long, long moment, Steve and Anthony stare at each other. Steve stares into Anthony’s eyes, silently begging that it’s not true…that this doesn’t bring if full circle for why James goes distant. Why sometimes the only person he can bear to be around is Charles and Charles won’t tell a soul about what they talked about. Why James… _James_ …

“Oh my _god_ , Anthony. I had no idea. I…” Steve trails off. Shock and horror make nausea roil in his gut. He backs away from the other man. 

“You didn’t have _any_ idea? Any idea at all?” Anthony pulls his robe back up and ties it in place.

“Well, no. I…we always knew that James would get…sad from time to time.” Steve winces at the understatement. “But we didn’t know this was the reason. We didn’t know that you two had ever been together in the first place. We…I thought that the only person he ever told was Charles.” 

“Oh. Good. Then he’s still safe. And yes, the only person that we could ever trust to take a secret to his fucking grave and good for him. Him and Monica.” 

Anthony downs another drink, and then turns that not-smile onto Steve again. 

“It used to be a…iron mask or something, our Mark. A real strong, _noble_ looking Mark. Only fucking thing ‘noble’ about me. Hah. And when we Bonded after we made love, his was glowing silver and blue, while mine was glowing yellow and gold. And my Rhodey was happy as hell and smiling the whole time. Most beautiful shit I’d ever seen. Never forget it. Then it was time to get cut and…yeah.” A single, pearly tear glistens in his eye. But he wipes it away before it can fall. 

Steve feels indignation flare in his chest. “Then if you loved him so much, why didn’t you stay with him? You cut off your Bond and just left him in Harlem to deal with it all by himself? How could you abandon him like that?” 

“…I’m sorry, what’s my name?” Anthony asks without looking at Steve. Two more shots downed. 

Steve blanches as he realizes his gross overstep. He stretches out a hand, though he still doesn’t touch Anthony. “Oh. I’m sorry. Ignore that. I just crossed the line and I-”

He waves away his apology. “No, it’s fine. It’s not like you’re telling a lie anyway. I did abandon him.” A self-deprecating smile forms. “That doesn’t change no matter how many times I try to drown it, huh?” 

But Steve neither sees nor feels any humor. “I’m sorry, Anthony. I am. But I still need to know where to get cut. Please.” 

“Of course you do. I should be the one to apologize for wasting your time. And I bet you brought money here to bribe me-do us both a favor and just keep it.” 

Anthony goes to the heavy oak desk across the room and pulls things out of a drawer. Three large rolls of money that’s probably more than Sam and Steve’s families have made in their whole lives combined. Next are a pen and a pad of paper, on which Anthony scribbles furiously. Anthony then hands Steve the money and paper. Steve takes it, but Anthony puts his other hand atop Steve’s. “They’ll knock you out, but you’ll still be aware of them doing it. It’s…they pretty much just sedate you so you can’t fight back and get yourself hurt even more. When I next woke up, I was vomiting every other hour and suffering convulsions and fever. And…it doesn’t happen as much anymore, but there’s a chance you could bleed out-”

“I don’t care. The sooner I get this done, the safer Sam will be. Thank you.” Steve briefly reads the address, doctor’s name, and what to say on the paper. 

“No need for thanks. Although…will you do one thing for me?” 

Steve stuffs the paper and money in his jacket. “What’s that?” 

“I got cut…a relatively long time ago. They knocked me out, but I could still feel the severing of Rhodey and my Bond in the back of my mind every time that scalpel moved; I’m telling you, you’ll still feel it no matter what they shoot up your veins. There’s not a day that goes by when I still don’t feel it, when my scar doesn’t ache. And there sure as hell isn’t a day that goes by when I don't miss my Rhodey like all hell. And I know he misses me.” 

“But if I had to, to save Rhodey’s life, I’d do it again. Just like I’m sure you would for Sam.” 

Steve’s voice goes softer than it’s ever been since he entered the mansion. “I would.” 

Anthony smiles a sad, sad smile, his steel blue eyes softened until they’re melting with sadness around their irises. If Steve wasn’t already more-than-halfway to grieving himself, he would’ve choked on the way Anthony’s grief percolated the entire room. “Of course you would. But there’s something else you can do, that I can’t: please take care of your Sam. After this war is over, and if you both can come back home to each other…please stay with him. Please take very, very good care of him. I saw him, when you got sick while you were metamorphosing and I know strong, mutual love that barely changes with a Mark and a Bond when I see it.” 

“I couldn’t stay with Rhodey because of who and what I am. I had to ask Charles and Monica to help and take care of him and they wouldn’t even take my money to do it. But you? You’re a nobody. No one knows your name and no one cares. Please use that to do what I couldn’t.” 

Steve stares directly into Anthony’s eyes and speaks the truth, “I will stay with him. I love him.” 

Anthony stares right back. “Then you better hurry up before the U.S Army finds you two.” 

Steve nods and leaves the mansion as quickly as he came. 

Anthony sits back down in the armchair and drinks straight from the decanter. 

-

The address of the place that Anthony gave him is a building on the Lower East Side of Brooklyn, a place Steve has never been before. It’s nestled in among empty, abandoned buildings reeking of alcohol, refuse and dust. Several of its bricks are missing, possibly stolen for projectiles during riots and even parts for someone to build a home. All but one of its windows is missing their glass and ragged, holey, discolored curtains conceal what’s inside. The door is stained and rusted, but still on all its hinges. And as Steve goes up to the door to knock exactly four times per Anthony’s instructions, he lifts a lapel of his jacket to protect his nose from the overpowering stench. 

From behind the door comes a, “Terrible weather we’re having, aren’t we?” 

Steve replies, “Yes, but I always hold out hope for sunny skies.” 

There’s a click and a rustle as the door is opened and Steve quickly slips inside. The person that answered the door is an elderly White man that peers at Steve behind heavy bifocals. His back is hunched and his posture is stooped, requiring him to look up at the taller, younger man. Around the shiny crown that is his bald spot atop his head, is sparse, snow white hair. His mouth is pinched and his green eyes are sharp and focused. He leans lightly on a cane held in one wrinkled, age-spotted hand. 

Steve inclines his head. “My name is Steve Rogers. Are you Dr. Costanzo?” 

“I am. You are here to get your Mark cut?” 

“Yes sir. I need it done right now.” 

“Of course you do. This way.” 

Steve follows the old man deeper into the building. They go down a hidden set of stairs that lead to a huge, echoing basement. Steve tries not to see the room and just focuses on following the doctor. There’s not quite a stench down here, but the acrid tang of rubbing alcohol, iodine and blood stings his nose. He draws his jacket tighter around himself. 

Dr. Costanzo gestures for Steve to sit in one of two rusted folding chairs set off to the side. When Steve obeys, he asks, “Where is your Mark, young man?” 

Steve takes off his jacket and rolls up his right sleeve. He shows the inside of his right forearm…his falcon. _Sam’s_ falcon. It feels beyond horrible and wrong to expose his Mark to a man that is going to get rid of it. Steve’s muscles tremble with the effort to resist yanking his Marked arm back and hiding it in his sleeve, away from the doctor’s inquisitive eyes. But the thought of what will happen to Sam if he doesn’t go through with this gives him the strength to hold steady. 

Dr. Costanzo adjusts his bifocals and examines the splendid falcon. He extends his aged hands and quietly asks, “May I touch?”

 _No. Stay away the fuck away from it._ “Do whatever you have to.” 

The doctor cups Steve’s large wrist in both of his hands and his thumbs touch on the Mark. He traces the intricate design and presses. He presses several times in several places. The whole time, Steve is fighting to yank his arm back and run the hell out of this place, cradling his Mark close to him the whole time. 

After a few more minutes, Dr. Costanzo releases Steve’s arm, leans back and says, “Hmmm.” 

“So can you cut it?” 

Dr. Costanzo gives a small, sad smile to his patient and replies, “Yes, I can cut it. All Marks can be cut. However, I have good news and bad news.” 

“Just give it to me straight.” 

“The good news is that, because your Mark is on your arm, it’s in an area that is easy to position and reach for removal. There are people who have Marks on the insides of their thighs, for example. So you should be able to lie in relative comfort as we do the procedure.” 

Before Steve can growl that he doesn’t care about comfort, the doctor continues, “The bad news is that your Mark in particular goes very, very deep into your skin. It may even be embedded all the way to your bone. We will have to take the entire piece of flesh out; one layer of your skin won’t do it.” 

“And can you do that in one sitting?” 

“Yes, I can.” The doctor pauses. “We can sedate you during the procedure. But there is nothing for the pain and other side effects afterwards. The most common side effects are excessive vomiting and convulsions. All we can do is hold you here and give you fluids and ensure you don’t bleed out until it passes.” 

Steve nods. “I’ve been made aware of that. Will it pass before next week? I’ve enlisted and I’m due at base that Tuesday.” 

“I’m certain you’ll at least be able to walk by that time.” 

Steve reaches into his jacket and pulls out all the money Anthony gave him. Dr. Costanzo takes the rolls of bills and doesn’t bother to count them. Slowly, he stands up. “Come.” 

Steve follows him to an operating table complete with armrests. It’s there that the acrid tang stings his nose even more. 

A dark-skinned Black woman comes out of a side room and smiles gently at him. She extends her hand. “I’m Carol, Dr. Costanzo’s nurse. You’re going to be just fine.” 

Steve nods and shakes her hand warmly. “Hi. I’m Steve Rogers.” 

They get him in a hospital gown and have him lay supine on the operating table. Carol gently tucks a blanket around him and places his right arm on a sterile stand with tools he tries not to see, his Mark facing up. Dr. Costanzo is in another room, washing his hands. 

She speaks to him softly and he forces himself to concentrate as much as he can on her words. He knows that she can tell that he doesn’t grasp everything she’s saying, but she doesn’t appear to mind. From what he can grasp, Carol paints somewhat soothing pictures in his head of the Oklahoma farm she grew up on with her parents, grandparents and three siblings. She speaks of warm, early morning sunrises and wide prairie fields and tall, tall wheat barley stalks and gentle cows and it all runs through Steve’s mind like warm, honeyed butter melting like it has all the time in the world. 

By the time Dr. Costanzo comes out with freshly clean hands, Steve is already halfway to breathing slower. Carol helps the doctor into his surgical gown, mask and cap. Carol, too, puts on gown, mask and cap. In the next minute, Dr. Costanzo informs him, “We’re going to put you to sleep now and start the procedure.” 

Steve can only manage a curt nod and forces himself to ignore his palpitating heart. Dr. Costanzo comes forward with the necessary needle to Steve’s left arm. 

Steve glances at the needle…the needle with the anesthetic. He looks back at his Mark and the protective instinct to cover it, to hide it flares once more. “W-wait. I…please wait.” 

The doctor obliges and Steve takes a long, long look at his shared Mark with Sam. He swears it’s the most beautiful Mark in the world with its proudly canted head, flaring, intricate feathers and fierce stare. Oh, what color would it have glowed, if Sam and he had joined hands and Bonded? How beautiful it would feel if, with that Bond, they could spend the rest of their lives with the warmth of each other’s presence in the backs of their minds. 

And Steve…Steve would wave around his glowing, Bonded Mark for all the world to see with pride bursting through his chest. He’d wave it around and shout to the skies that this falcon is Sam Wilson’s Mark and Steve Rogers doesn’t deserve Sam Wilson. Never has, probably never will. But this Mark is even more evidence that Steve needs to and can stay with Sam, to be with Sam and love him like a beloved fella should be loved long, long past the end of time. And he’ll shout that out too. Shout it until his voice is gone and when his voice is gone, he’ll just rest by kissing the daylights out of Sam until he can shout it again.

But instead, here he is in an underground, illegal clinic to get it cut. 

Brand new tears he swore he wouldn’t shed come forth. 

Dr. Costanzo softly places a hand on his patient’s shoulder. His voice is just as soft as his touch. “I understand, Mr. Rogers. But the longer you wait, the more endangered your Soulmate is. There is no more time.”

Steve can’t stop the tears sliding down his face. Carol comes forward to wipe them, but they fall faster than the tissue can catch. 

But Steve reminds himself that this isn’t goodbye. This _can’t_ be goodbye. Both Sam and he will come back home, to the relative safety of Harlem. They’ll both come back and it’ll be just like it was before, even with their Mark cut. They’ll find a way. They’ll be just fine together. This is just an interlude that’ll end faster than they both know it. And if Harlem changes for whatever reason to the point where it’s no longer safe, then Steve will find a way to take them somewhere else that is, even if he has to walk or swim or crawl the whole goddamned way with Sam on his back. 

It’ll be alright. After this…it’ll be alright. 

_I love you…_

His voice is strangled. “Okay. I…okay. Go ahead.” 

Steve’s world goes black. 

But, as Anthony cautioned, there is still the back of his mind that is conscious. 

_I love you. I love you so, so much. Don’t worry, you’re not going to feel any of this. None of this. This isn’t happening to you, this isn’t going to hurt you as bad and thank god…thank god…_

Steve is unconscious, but he can feel that scalpel. Its icy cold, unforgiving metal tip touching the skin around his Mark. He can feel nothing else but that, all his unconscious feeling tunneled into the mutilation that is about to be done to his body. 

_Sam…_

The scalpel wedges in. Deeper and deeper and deeper, still, it wedges into his skin. And the deeper it goes, the more he can feel the welling and squirting of his blood. Its fresh copper tang fills his nose. 

_Sam, baby…we’ll go to the movies after this. We’ll take turns hogging the popcorn…_

And now the scalpel is buried in his skin. It starts to slice around his Mark. Slicing, slicing, slicing, steadily making its way towards a circular cut. 

_We’ll go dancing at the Hennessy Ballroom again, too. I’ll step on your feet so many times…_

_Splitsch, splitsch, splistch, splistch_ , goes the scalpel. More and more of his blood spills and squirts until he can feel the entirety of his hand and lower arm soaked in the crimson. The copper tang is all that Steve can smell outside of the salt of the new tears he cannot shed in his sedation. And Steve’s soul is screaming. His soul screams at the top of its lungs with no chance at ending in hoarseness. It twists and thrashes against his heart, desperate for this to not happen. For this to all be some horrible, all-too-fast nightmare. 

_The park again. We’ll go to the park. I’ll draw you anything you want-anything you can possibly imagine, I’ll make it for you. And I’ll watch you feed your pigeons too. I still remember how you like the crust on your sandwiches…I remember…I’ll always remember…Sam…_

_Splitsch, splitsch, splitsch…_ The circle is more than halfway done now. How slowly, but how quickly it happens. Steve can feel the piece of flesh holding his Mark start to fully detach from his arm. His hand and forearm are now all but swimming in blood. He has the vaguest sense that some of it may be trickling to the floor. 

_Sam…Sam…_

One final _splitsch_ and it’s gone. It’s done. A good chunk of Steve’s skin is cut away from his body and, with it, his Mark. His Mark is gone. 

He and Sam can never, ever Bond. 

But Sam will be safe. They won’t find out, they won’t find Sam. Sam is safe and sound, as safe and sound as anybody can be when they’re a Black man about to go to the front lines. They won’t find Sam…

_I love you, I love you, I love you…don’t ever forget…please do not ever forget…I love you, I love you…_

-

Sam is finishing packing everything he’s ever left at the Rogers-Barnes apartment when he feels it. 

His Mark goes from grey to snow white and becomes numb. 

It has never happened before, but no one needs to tell him what it is. No one needs to tell him what’s going on. 

Steve is cut. 

The floor rips out from under Sam’s feet at the same time that the entire weight of the universe slams on his back and shoulders. He collapses, arms gripping the edge of the bed for an anchor. Any kind of anchor. Sam buries his face in his arms and sobs. 

His sobs are loud and broken, echoing around the dead, empty apartment for all and no one to hear. They wrench themselves from his body and fall effortlessly into the air. High, his sobs climb until Sam can’t catch his breath. And then low, his sobs climb back down, to the inadequate nest of his arms. His tears burn hotter than ever, searing everything they touch with their grief and misery. 

A tiny, tiny part of him, in the back of his mind, wishes there was someone to console him…but he is inconsolable anyway. Another part wants very, very desperately to find out where he can find the cutting clinic that Steve is at so he can visit his fella and make him feel better. Tell him it’s alright…it really, really is going to be alright and he loves him. Sam loves Steve so, so much and this changes absolutely nothing. But to seek out and find Steve is to potentially out each other as Soulmates and make Steve’s sacrifice moot. 

But it _hurts_. It hurts as surely as if Sam’s own heart had been cut out. 

Sam sobs. 

Steve, meanwhile, spends the next four days purely surviving. Every four hours he vomits up the scorching acid in his stomach. The horrid sound and putrid stench of his repeated retching fills the small clinic. But if it bothers Dr. Costanzo and Carol, they make no mention of it. They simply help Steve clean himself, change his IV, change his sheets and/or pillowcase and place a new bucket at his bedside. When he’s not vomiting, his body fights a fever the likes of which he hasn’t known since he was smaller and skinnier. He sweats and sweats and no matter how many blankets they pile atop him, he still feels chilled to the bone marrow. When the convulsions are due to hit, Dr. Costanzo inserts a mouth guard between his teeth and gives him balls to squeeze until it passes. 

Carol changes his dressing and bandages a minimum of twice a day. Several times, his wound reopens of its own volition, thus the danger of bleeding out. Each time she does the acrid tang of blood, iodine and gauze hits the air to mingle sickeningly with the stench of vomit. Steve, perhaps through sheer force of will to see Sam again, stays alive. But he doesn’t look at the red-and-pink mess that is his arm. He doesn’t. He can’t. 

And in-between all of it, Steve sleeps. He sleeps like he never has before, perpetually exhausted and brokenhearted. He has no energy to spare to even cry. When he’s awake and capable of concentrating on a spot on the wall, Carol tells him more stories of her family’s farm back in Oklahoma. Steve doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to tell her just how much he appreciates the endless comfort of her storytelling. 

Because just about every other time he tries, the convulsions start again. 

Steve is capable of standing on his own two feet by Sunday and Sam has already shipped out to base by that Friday before. No one besides them knows what happened and no one can know. It’s time for war.  
They didn’t even get a chance to Bond. They never would’ve had a chance to Bond in the first place. 

All that helped keep them going was the promise of being together again once they got back home. 

But even that was not meant to be. 

Sam, a member of the Tuskegee Airmen, intercepted with his plane, a shell meant for his one of his wingmen. 

Steve throws his body atop a grenade to shield his fellow soldiers. 

No one else comes home. 

-  
As the world continues on its axis, so the world continues to roil. 

It is in 1965 that one of the victories of the Civil Rights Movement was the repeal of _Hemsen vs. Milledge (1886)_. It was replaced by the Right of Soulmates Act, which decreed that all Soulmates of all races and genders have the right to be together. In addition, the new law abolished the required registration that came with the case. 

As several states initially rebelled, it took a long, long time before the law could be enforced. But enforced, for the most part, it was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh...last and final chapter, dears!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes added at the end! :D

**LaGaurdia Airport, East Elmhurst, Late November 2014**

Sam sits on a bench outside the airport. He tried to wait for his Soulmate’s plane to arrive inside, but it was just too crowded. Too loud. Too noisy. 

Too much like the inside of his head right now. 

And that’s not even counting the layers upon layers of early Christmas decorations all over the place. 

So here he is, waiting on a bench outside an airport in the middle of the November cold. There are just slightly fewer people and just about every one of them are either hurrying into the building or hurrying into their cars. Some stop to grasp loved ones in a tight hug and others exclaim loudly when they see someone they’ve missed. Sam looks away. 

At least he’s relatively insulated from the cold. His heavy dark green parka is zipped all the way up to his neck and underneath, he wears two wool sweaters over a t-shirt. Thick leg warmers are tucked snug under one of his favorite pair of dark blue jeans. A pair of wool gloves keeps his hands warm. His two suitcases and overnight bag sit at his feet. 

He pays attention to the slow flurry of snow that’s steadily blanketing East Elmhurst and surely the rest of New York. Their pale hue is made starker as the evening sky darkens. How lucky they are, he thinks, to just let the wind catch them as they fall, fall, fall down to the earth and they’ll simply land where they’ll land. Whether they land on a person’s face, the concrete, a car or the roof, it was fated to be. There are no uncertainties when and where snowflakes land. 

Lucky bastards. 

He struggles not to pull his phone out to check the status of his Soulmate’s plane for the nth time. Sam’s flight from D.C got him here around five, little more than an hour ago. His Soulmate’s plane all the way from California is due to arrive in another hour, around seven o’clock. Sam should be inside (where it’s warm for fuck’s sake) and holding up a sign that says…says ‘Steve’. He should be ready and excited and happy and smiling while he’s holding up that sign, too. And when his Soulmate finally comes, sees the sign, and they make eye contact, Sam should immediately go right to them and talk about dinner. Coffee. A walk. Anything so they can merrily be together and…and catch up after all this time lost. 

Sam should do that. Yet all that he has had the energy to do is send a quick text to the other man informing him that he arrived on time. Of course he has yet to receive a reply. 

There’s that voice in the back of his mind…that voice that makes his eyes zero in on the lack of new messages on his phone. He should know the _real_ reason his Soulmate hasn’t replied. He should know…no matter how much it may hurt like all hell, he should know…

_He doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. Sure as hell never loved me. That’s why we’re both reincarnated Soulmates. That’s why he got his Mark cut out in the first place..._

And really, what’s the proof that it’s just usual airplane restrictions that keep him from replying to Sam? What if he’s not even on the plane period? What if he just decided to stay home and far, far away from the man that made him go through the process of literally _getting his Mark cut_? Or what if he just forgot? 

Searing tears prick the corners of Sam’s eyes. He wouldn’t blame the man if he didn’t want Sam or just simply wasn’t too enthused about re-meeting him again. He wouldn’t blame him at all. He really wouldn’t. But, goddamn, Sam _wants_ to be wanted. So, so badly. The exhaustion of constantly wondering and worrying that he’s not…at this point, he doesn’t know if the phrase “wears down” even covers it. 

At this point, he doesn’t know if he should even stay-

“Sam?”

Sam’s head whips around at the tentative inquiry.

There, standing about ten feet from where Sam is sitting is a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed White man gazing at him. He wears a long, double-breasted black trench coat. Around his neck is a snug dark grey scarf with a dark blue zigzag pattern. Underneath his trench coat, Sam can make out a pair of jeans about as dark as his. On his feet, just like Sam’s, are regular gym shoes. One hand carries two suitcases and the other is stuffed deep in his pocket. 

Sam’s own gaze is captivated by the way the other man’s eyes are just drinking him in. They drink him in like they can’t get enough of him, like the visage that Sam presents simply by existing isn’t going to cut it.

And Sam can see himself in those eyes-in the quiet desperation, in the hesitant hope. He can see just about every single thought and emotion he’s struggled with reflected in those sky blue eyes. Those rosy lips are parted so that Sam can see the man’s breath forming in the winter air. His body looks like it’s damn near ready to crumple in the snow. 

Sam gathers his luggage and gets up at the same time the man comes closer. “How’d…how’d you know?” 

He smiles such a sad, sad smile that those bright shadows flicker at the edge of Sam’s consciousness again. “You just…you looked like you were sitting, waiting for somebody. Thought I’d take a lucky guess.” 

Steve is walking, but he’s going to melt. He’s going to melt right into the snow. This… _this_ is what he came all the way from California for. This man named Sam Wilson, this man that is so impossibly beautiful. He’s bundled up nicely, but Steve has an impulse to make sure he’s even warmer. His deep brown skin is shown to beautiful relief against the icy white of the snow. All the bright and gaudy Christmas decorations in the world can’t hold a candle to the beauty that is Sam Wilson. 

That pair of brown eyes are deep, deep pools reflecting a kind of hell that hasn’t been all that different from Steve’s hell. But Steve is going to fix that. He’s going to fix that tonight and for the rest of their goddamned lives if that’s what it takes. 

Sam nods slowly, his heart almost pounding out of his ribcage. “Well, yeah. I’m waiting for somebody.” 

Wanting some of the tension to dissipate, he playfully pretends to scrutinize the newcomer. “That depends on what color you’re talking about, though.”

That does it. They both dissolve into chuckles. 

When they can both breathe, he responds, “You know, I can understand that. One-hundred-percent understand that.” 

Sam smiles softly and whispers, “…Steve?” 

The name falling from Sam’s mouth makes the whole damn world fade away if it hasn’t already. They’re gazing deeply into each other’s eyes again.

 _Sam._

_Steve._

Steve whispers right back. “Yeah. I’m here. I’m…I’m here.” 

Steve lifts a gloved hand from his pocket briefly towards Sam’s face, but moves it right back to his pocket at the last minute. Both of them feel the deep disappointment and Sam struggles against the impulse to yank that hand back out the pocket to touch his face.

Instead, Sam whispers again. “I’m glad…you’re here. I’m glad we’re both here. Real glad…Steve.” 

“Me too, Sam. Me too.” 

Steve’s eyes are a bit glossy and they both know it has fuck all to do with the chilly wind. 

Sam takes a gigantic leap of faith. He takes such a leap in part because he wants to make sure that, after all this time, this moment is real and because he swears he’ll implode if he doesn’t do this. His luggage plops into the snow at his feet. The leap manifests in stepping into Steve’s personal space, slowly wrapping his arms around Steve’s torso and resting his head on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve doesn’t quite surprise Sam when he, too, drops his luggage and returns the gesture. His arms wrap snugly, but gently, around Sam’s shoulders. 

Now both of their eyes are glassy as hell. Both of them can’t spare a thought for their surroundings. Their arms just keep holding the other man tighter and tighter until their bodies are pressed flush together. They can feel the other’s breathing in and out…just in and out. Bright shadows flicker at the edges oh-so delicately now and they close their eyes no longer to chase the shadows, but now to savor the Unbonded, but newfound Soulmate in their arms. They stand like this for a long, long time. 

They melt into each other’s arms and from the bottom of their hearts and souls, it’s a _sigh_ and a _breath_ and a _moan_ all at once. 

Too long. It doesn’t matter the actual time lapse between their past lives and their reincarnations. It’s been much, much too long. 

Steve moves a hand up to gently smooth over the back of Sam’s head. He can feel the thick, wavy texture even through his glove. Those bright shadows flicker more strongly and he can faintly scent pomade oil and hear the soothing, rhythmic sounds of a coarse bristle brush going over and over… _shreeuh, shreeuh…_

Sam takes a deep, deep shuddering breath and asks, “Hey, you wanna know something funny?” 

“Please do tell. But I’m warning you right now that if I end up laughing even louder than before, I’m not responsible for your eardrum.”

Sam gives a near-breathless chuckle. His eyes are shuttering at the comforting and _familiar_ feel of Steve’s hand on his hair. The comfort of that hand propels him forward with his confession. “For the longest time, I was worried. I worried that…whoever my shared my Mark didn’t really want me. That maybe they just…left me because they didn’t want me.” 

Steve’s breath hitches and his hand immediately stills on Sam’s hair. He was prepared to destroy the possible insecurity in his Soulmate no matter what it took. But to actually hear the worry, real and raw, from Sam’s lips turns Steve’s insides colder than the snow flurrying around them. 

He has wanted the man in his arms for as long as he knew he had a Soulmate. 

He presses, if possible, even closer to Sam. Futilely, he wishes that his physical presence alone could take away Sam’s hurt-hurt that he caused years and years ago, however inadvertently. 

“Oh no. No, no, no, no. Of _course_ I want you. I don’t even _know_ you right now and I want you. As soon as our Mark started forming, I have always wanted you, Sam Wilson. I swear.” 

Sam’s eyes smart so much that he’s gonna cry at this airport. Overwhelmed, he buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and takes deep, deep steadying breaths. Steve resumes stroking his hair and it’s as tender as a kiss, as heartfelt as a declaration. 

Sam finds himself inhaling deeply of Steve’s coat. Bright shadows come again and he can hear the crinkling of paper, the _shrush, shrush_ of a paintbrush going back and forth… “Paint…? Acrylics? Do you…?” 

There’s a smile in Steve’s voice. “Uh huh. Not as much as I used to, though…” Steve trails off, his own eyes rapidly blinking as they struggle with their own tears. 

He reluctantly pulls away from Sam and places his hands on Sam’s upper arms and lightly squeezes. “C’mon. How about a warm hotel room?” 

Sam sniffles a little & notes that both their eyes have spilled a little. Hell, Steve’s are just shy of bloodshot. “I was gonna ask the same thing. ‘Nother funny thing, huh?” 

Steve’s face lights up. “So funny that it’s a great idea.”

He takes off his scarf and tucks it close around Sam’s neck and chest. 

They hail a taxi. 

-

Indeed, the modest hotel is quite warm. 

They book a room with one bed. 

Once inside their room, they set their luggage down on the chairs. They shed their outer winter layers, though Sam keeps Steve’s scarf in his lap. 

Even in the taxi, they hadn’t quite been able to keep their hands to themselves. Hell, they didn’t even bother with the seatbelts. Steve scooted until he was on Sam’s side of the cab and snuggled closely until their thighs were flush against each other. Steve then nestled his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, to which Sam responded by laying his head atop Steve’s. They interlaced their gloved hands together, hearts pounding at the thought of what will happen when they can do this without cloth in the way...

They spent the whole taxi ride as such, idly drifting between listening to the other breathe and watching the city lights pass by. 

And now, here they sit, unable to bear sitting too far away from each other. Their thighs are flush against each other once more. 

“May I see it?” Sam asks quietly. 

“Sure”, Steve says just as quietly. 

He unrolls his right sweater’s sleeve high up his right forearm. Sam’s eyes take in the scar marring his Soulmate’s flesh and he struggles to keep the bile down. He can make out the grey falcon formed over it and Sam lightly traces its lines. It’s exactly identical to his. This happened…this really, really happened and no matter how their relationship rebuilds itself and how much time passes, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to accept it. 

His voice strangled, he says, “I know this hurt bad. I am so, so sorry. I wish you hadn’t had to do it.” 

Steve leans forward until he can rest his head in the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam can feel him give one of those sad smiles again. “You know, I think that’s my line.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I…worried too. I thought I had to get cut because I did and/or said something horrible to you and I had to get away from you. I thought it was my fault.” 

“Oh, so now you’re stealing my damn lines now? You really think you were _such_ an asshole of a Soulmate that you went and got your ass cut?” 

“Damn right. See? You’re not the only one blaming the hell out of yourself. I just want you to know you’re not the only one and…and if I _did_ do something, then I’m the one who’s sorry. Either way, you have nothing to apologize for. Ever.” 

Sam snuggles his head atop Steve’s. “You know what? I’ve been sick and tired of going around and around in circles wondering and worrying. Plus I’ve missed you like hell. Barely even remember you and I miss you.” 

“I miss you too. Missed you so bad it fucking ached.” Steve swallows and turns his head to breathe in Sam again. It brings back that pomade oil. “Are you…ready? If you’re not, just say so and-”

“I was ready as soon as I saw you at the airport. So c’mon.” Sam proffers his left forearm to Steve. 

Steve sits up and unrolls Sam’s sleeve. Upon baring Sam’s Mark, his sky blue eyes widen. “Our Marks match, Sam. They really do match.” 

“Yeah, they do. Kinda great, isn’t it?” 

“Just kinda. I’ll get back with you on that.” 

They share a nervous chuckle. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

They have the sense to scoot back so they’re supported against the pillows. They turn so that they’re facing each other; Sam’s left hand faces Steve’s right. With their opposite arms, they lightly embrace each other and scoot as close as possible. It’s all just a matter of intertwining their hands now. It all just comes down to this one moment. 

This is it. 

Their hearts race and their breaths shorten and their palms sweat and their eyes can’t tear themselves away from each other. Slowly, carefully…they interlace their fingers, touch their bare palms and…

…it’s _magic_. 

They lose their breaths as a surge of pure power courses through their forearms and spread to the entirety of their bodies. It concentrates itself deep in their hearts and in their stomachs until it’s impossible to feel anything but warm energy. Their Marks glow so vibrantly that they nearly outshine the lamplight. Sam’s is blinding neon orange; Steve’s becomes a deeper and deeper baby blue as his scar fades away. 

And the _flood_ comes. The dam of the bright shadows bursts open and both men are flooded with so, so many memories. Hennessy Ballroom. Glanden Park. Brushes. Love making. Silver Curtain. Harlem.

Them. In love. Together. 

Bright shadows are replaced with Harlem lights.

If they fell into each other’s arms back at the airport, now they collapse into each other. They cling until they can feel the other’s bones beneath their grasps. It’s a heap of gasping and tears and they won’t let go. Can’t let go…not after so, so long and so, so much pain. 

Much too long. Much too much pain. 

They quietly cry and loudly sob in turn. Sam wraps his arms tight around Steve’s broad shoulders and Steve clutches Sam around the waist. They’re getting their shirts ruined with salt water and quite possibly scaring the holy hell out of any neighbors with their sobs, but they couldn’t care less. Adrenaline from the Bonding and resulting flood of reincarnated memories and feelings leave them reeling and they cling to each other all the more. 

Sam and Steve cling as though their reunion will be ripped away from them. As though they’ll somehow be transported back to that moment in their first life where they realize their Marks match and the U.S government will come down on their-especially Sam’s-heads. As though the cold outside is blasting through and they want to covet all the warmth between them for all they can. 

They cling. 

“You son of a _bitch_. I can’t believe you, you son of a bitch”, Sam cries softly. 

“Oh my god, oh my god…oh my fucking god, _Sam_ ”, Steve cries just as softly. 

“I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this, oh my god…” 

“I know. Can’t believe it either.” 

“We should…we should do something now. I think…yeah, we should do something now.” 

“Whatever you want, Sam. I don’t give a shit what it is, just so long as neither one of us has to leave the other ever again. That’s all I care about.” 

Sam gives a small chuckle through his tears and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “How ‘bout…we stay here? Right here and just cut off each other’s oxygen for a little while longer? You like that?” 

Sam can hear the bright smile in Steve’s voice. “Oh yeah. That…that works. That works real, real well. I think we should…go with that option. Yeah. Let’s stay right here.” His hand comes up to stroke Sam’s hair again. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told your stupid ass that I love you. Always have and always will.” 

The declaration goes straight to Sam’s heart, making his already-short breath come out shuddering. And with so, so many of their shared memories flooding back…it feels ludicrous that he ever doubted for one second. He snuggles his head closer to Steve’s. “I love you too, Steve Rogers.” 

Steve squeezes his burning eyes shut and just holds onto Sam tighter. 

Several moments later, when their tears have mostly dried, Steve asks quietly, “Hey, may I do something?” 

“What’s that?” 

“Kiss you? Is that alright? It’s kinda…been a while, you know. Just a little while”, Steve chuckles.

Sam half-snorts, half-chortles. “Is that so? You saying you miss kissing me?” 

Over each other’s shoulders, their bloodshot eyes shimmer with decades’ old desire. 

“Why yes, Sam Wilson. I miss kissing you.” 

“It’s your lucky night then, because I miss kissing you too. So c’mere.” 

Sam pulls away and in the next second he’s fitting his lips over Steve’s. At the contact, they groan into each other’s mouths. Soon they’re devouring each other just like they used to and in the next moments, their hands can’t stop re-exploring and relearning the other’s body. Sam’s hands bury themselves in Steve’s hair and Steve’s hands find their way under Sam’s two sweaters and t-shirt to splay across his warm back. From there, their kissing becomes a frantic mess of lips, teeth, tongue and breath. Neither one of them knows quite where their clothes land. They just know that they’re overdressed and nothing less than the full contact of their bare skin will satisfy them. 

They blissfully make love three times that night. 

-

The next day, they leave the hotel, hand-in-hand, to see their Harlem again. 

Sam and Steve can just barely remember their favorite haunts in the city. Their renewed Bond only gave them just enough to remember what they mean to each other and little else more. But they let their hearts carry their feet with the faint remembrances of jazz and dancing and chicken and laughter. Harlem is blanketed in snow that’s bathed to gold by the early morning sun. More than seventy years have passed, but this is still home to them in their hearts, though it is…raw. 

Just a bit too raw. 

Harlem is not as it once was. 

Fear and poverty is still a marker. As Sam and Steve walk amongst the people, they can feel its familiar cloak over the air. Of course, more so in the people of color than in any white face. A woman struggles to move a shopping cart holding what’s most likely all of her possessions. Another woman wraps a scarf that’s about four times too thin and three times too full of holes tighter around her neck. An old man, his scraggly beard silver against his dark skin, sleeps hunched against the cold on the stoops of what was once a pizza joint. 

Yet there are no Harlem lights to assuage the inevitable hurts of fear and poverty. Neither Sam nor Steve can hear the intoxicating wafting of jazz and blues music permeating the streets. No singers and dancers merrily prancing on their way to the next gig, hoping for a good time and a good pay. No pleasurably overwhelming scents of fried chicken and collard greens and waffles and mac n’ cheese to entice patrons. No cheap righteous rags worn proudly and stoutly by late-night partiers. 

None of it. 

What was once a glorious flood of black and brown bodies and faces is now little better than a meager stream. Sam and Steve can sense that the stream will become but a trickle by the time they’re old men. But by god, it used to be a flood of black and brown. It used to be that, everywhere Sam looked in Harlem, he saw mostly himself. And now there isn’t nearly enough. Now there are too many White faces. Much, much too many White faces. 

The vacant lots are too numerous to count. They walk among overgrown weeds, piles of grey slush from the snow, cracked pavement and the stench of uncontrolled industry. 

Empty boarded-up houses sit in quiet sufferance like ghosts too-long neglected and ignored. Some of the houses have glass and wood shards scattered around. If they get close enough, there’s the stench of mold and dust swirling in with an overall lack of any recent human life. A good handful of them have dilapidated roofs. Another good handful of them have a front door barely holding on with just a hinge or two. 

A few times, they find art. Beautiful, wonderful graffiti art on the abandoned brick walls. So, so beautiful and so, so wonderful the graffiti is that they probably spend an entire two hours just searching, finding and appreciating it. Black angels with afros as high as the clouds painted around them. Assata and Malcolm and Martin and Angela’s faces taking up a whole side of a wall. An entire mural of boomboxes and musical notes. Steve’s artist eyes light up; Sam’s heart sings. 

All too often they come upon a wall or a sidewalk where they can tell that a particular piece of art has been washed out. It’s those times when Sam’s heart stops singing and the light goes out of Steve’s eyes again. They can barely make out the original art of the washed-away graffiti. Sometimes Sam leans close to the wall and splays his gloved palm against the rough, chilly brick. He runs his hands over the faded patterns as though that will bring the artists’ work back to relief. 

It’s time to move on. 

They walk for a long time. A long, long time until they come to another part of Harlem, where there are even more white faces and just a steady trickle of black and brown. 

They stare in abject horror at the Starbucks on the next block.

Sam’s voice is a broken whisper. “…They’re moving it all out- _us_ all out. I can’t believe this, but…at the same time, I ain’t surprised. Not surprised at all…” 

Steve grips his Soulmate’s hand tighter while rubbing Sam’s forearm with his other hand. He stares hard at the Starbucks, as though he could just wish it away with his eyes alone. “I’m sorry, Sam. I am so, so sorry.” 

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath and his voice is strangled. “I guess…I guess I always knew it’d be a little too close to try and to come back here and I was alright with that. But I…I didn’t know this happened. Guess I hoped Harlem would be untouchable somehow.” 

“I know. Trust me, I know.” Steve kisses Sam’s temple. 

Leaning into Steve’s touch, Sam asks, “Where do you think we should go now? We still got a hell of a lot of catching up to do and figuring out the future, huh?” 

Steve looks around them for a good, long while before answering, voice soft. “Yeah. You’re right-it’s too close here and too much has changed. You and I have to catch up and…rebuild again.” He looks into Sam’s eyes. “Let’s go wherever you want.” 

Sam’s eyebrows fly up. “Wherever _I_ want? You don’t have a place?” 

“Well…I’ve spent a lot of time in California, as you know. And I set down roots in Brooklyn in…this life with my Ma and Bucky.” Steve’s eyes shimmer with unbound love. “But right now, I’m just so, so happy that I have you back now. I’m happy we have our Marks and our Bonds back. So I don’t care where we go-just so long as I’m with you, it’s home.” 

Sam finds himself blinking rapidly and, once again, it has fuck all to do with the cold. “You know, I don’t think I have any final place in mind at the moment. But…I can think of a place for just right now. It might even be just a little bit warmer than here. How ‘bout that?” 

Steve’s smile is more blinding than the entirety of the snow. “I think I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” 

Sam gives him an equally blinding smile.

-

**Atlanta, Georgia, Early December 2014**

Steve swallows nervously as he walks hand-in-hand with Sam, up Mrs. Wilson’s front porch. In his free hand, he holds the huge platter of snickerdoodle and chocolate chip cookies. They’re both wearing dorky holiday-themed sweaters; Sam has a jolly Black Santa Clause on his and Steve sports a reindeer one. No matter how many times Sam assured him that his grandmother would love him, he’s still nervous as hell. So, so vaguely, he knows that he met Sam’s parents in their past lives, once upon a time. He sure as hell knows he was nervous when that happened, too. 

The car that Bucky loaned them is one of many around the house and they had to park close to the curb. Bright, multicolored lights decorate the house and they accentuate the festive lawn decorations. Snowwomen, blow-up trees and the like tastefully decorate the lawn. 

From inside the house, they can hear all the warm, heartfelt chaos that is Sam’s family gathered for the holidays. Children running and playing (along with a mini-snowball war in the backyard) amok, the little thundering of their footsteps endearing them. The enticing scents of one of many dinners cooking and just about ready to be served. Christmas music blasting from just about every corner of the house, along with the TV showing cartoon specials. 

Sam leans over to kiss his cheek before ringing the doorbell. “Hey, really. It’s alright, don’t worry. Like I said, just be yourself and relax.” 

“I know, but I just…I want to make a good impression.” 

“You _are_. It’s gonna be okay.” 

Before Steve can reply, Sam’s grandmother answers the door. She smiles broadly at her grandson, then turns her eyes onto Steve. 

Sam introduces him. “Grandma? This is Steve Rogers. He’s my Soulmate. We finally found each other.” 

Grandma’s eyes bore into Steve’s skull and Steve swallows loudly in nervousness. Reluctantly, he lets go of Sam’s hand (his lifeline, really) and extends it to his grandmother. “Ma’am, it’s an honor. Sam’s told me a lot about you. And the rest of your family. I…I think I’ve memorized everybody’s names because it’s really important to know your own family’s names-” Steve cuts himself off, worried that he just overstepped his bounds. 

He rushes to try again, “And I, uh…I brought cookies. Lots of cookies for everyone. I made them myself, but you don’t have to worry because I can cook really, really good…well. I mean ‘well’. I got, uhh…snickerdoodle and chocolate chip here. But is anyone allergic to either? Sam didn’t tell me if anyone is, but I shouldn’t have assumed. Umm…it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Beside him, Sam is struggling to contain either delirious sobs or laughter (probably the latter…which is _really_ not helpful here) as he’s struggling to quietly suck in air through his nose. Ms. Wilson is still boring a hole into Steve’s head with her eyes. 

When she finally does speak, her voice is quiet, neutral. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you too, Steve Rogers. We wondered for a long, long time who our Sammy shared a Mark with. We got mighty worried. But I…think I can see why. I think I can see it.” 

Steve inclines his head. 

In the next second, Sam’s grandmother comes forward and wraps Steve in a hug so warm and tight that the surrounding cold can barely be felt. She whispers in a voice that’s choked with tears and emotion, “You’re home here, child. I am so, so happy the Lord answered our prayers for our Sammy and it’s you that he’s Marked and Bonded with. You’re family here, you understand?” 

Steve blinks several times and has to swallow loudly again as he hugs the woman back. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I’m glad I found Sam, too. So, so glad.” 

Mrs. Wilson squeezes him tight one last time, and then moves on to hug her grandson. “You take care of this boy, now. Take real good care of him.” 

Sam grins over her should at Steve. “I try, but what he won’t tell you is that he nearly destroyed the entire kitchen making those cookies.” 

Steve splutters indignantly and Mrs. Wilson responds, “Oh! Well, you gon’ have to tell us all about it! C’mon inside out of this cold and see everybody. Supper’s ready in about forty-five minutes.” She takes the platter of cookies from a blushing Steve. 

Once inside, the chaos is simply perfection. Sam warned Steve that his whole family would know that they share a Mark and a Bond (though, tactfully, his grandmother left out the parts about reincarnated cuts). And so they’re both passed from warm hug to warm hug. They’re seated firmly in the large living room where Sam helps sing along to the Christmas songs and Steve finds himself a combination of personal jungle gym and lounge chair to Sam’s many nieces and nephews. Before dinner, they go out to the backyard for an epic snowball fight, which Sam’s team wins by about eleven points. It’s small cups of hot cocoa, and then it’s dinnertime and Steve’s never _seen_ so much food laden on one table at one time before. It’s a miracle that anyone can walk once dessert is finished. 

Much, much later that night, Sam and Steve are still awake while the rest of the house is deeply asleep. Neither one of them can quite sleep well…not when they could stay awake and stare into the other’s eyes for a long, long time. They have fun sneaking into the kitchen ( _“Remember when we used to drink orange juice from the can?”_ ) and making hot cocoa for themselves as quietly as possible. Steve smothers Sam’s in rainbow sprinkles and Sam makes a gorgeous loop-de-loop work of Steve’s whipped cream atop. They bundle up, sneak through the house and go out to the back porch. Together, they sit on the swing and sip their seasonal treats. They watch the dozens of stars blink in the sky above the flickering holiday lights on the roof. 

Soon, their half-empty mugs are set on the end table beside the porch swing. They cuddle again, this time with Sam leaning over and laying with his back across Steve’s chest. Steve brings his arms around to hold both of Sam’s hands tightly in his. Both Sam and Steve use one leg to gently rock themselves back and forth in the swing. Back and forth…back and forth…

The swing’s _cre-creak, cre-creak_ as they rock is accompanied by the sounds of the winter wind softly whistling through the trees and blowing the tiny flurries of snow all about, sparse cars in the distance, and the tiny, nigh imperceptible sounds of life in a house full of sleeping occupants. All of the sounds combined further soothe the newly-reunited Soulmate couple and they snuggle even closer together, if possible. They don’t worry about the cold-the powerful heat from their Bond gives them all the warmth they need. 

They share a kiss tenderer and warmer than anything. 

The lights flicker and blink…flicker and blink.

The lights. 

_They say that time rectifies some injustices._

_Injustices that kill the body. Crush the hope. Hush the laughter._

_Break the heart._

_Wound the soul._

_With patience, some injustices are rectified by time._

_Just some._

_They say…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I promised notes! First and foremost, thank you **so much** to everyone that’s liked, kudos’d, commented, and helped me on this fic! I appreciate and love all of you more than you know! And now for this random list, in no particular order: 
> 
> 1\. This fic doesn’t go hard. I am aware of that. At this time of New York (1920s-40s) there was a _hell_ of a lot of violence against Black people and non-Black people of color perpetuated by whites (and, yes non-Black people of color perpetuated violence against Black people, too). You’re talking about scared White people just barging into POC’s homes and taking their food, clothes, materials, etc. during the Depression. You’re talking about White people going into the streets chanting shit like “No jobs for niggers until there are jobs for us!”. You’re talking about riots and protests and police violence and murders and lots of racial tension. And, ironically, there was a lot of racial tension between Black (Sam) and Irish (Steve) people, too! 
> 
> For a long time, I struggled with whether or not to show to relief those protests, riots, etc. I decided not to because…the same shit is going on now. I’m talking about Ferguson, Baltimore, every 28 hours now turning to every 8 hours. Then the rife poverty, inequality and White people continuing to take shit out on us and turn around and posit Bootstrap Theory to us in the next breath. And so, in honor of all of my fellow Black people (I’m a cishet Black woman) and other people of color, I’ve decided to only briefly give mention to the violence of that time. 
> 
> 2\. Another thing this fic doesn’t go hard on is the actual segregation of the real Harlem nightlife. In fact, real places like the Cotton Club and the Savoy Ballroom were royally fucked up (as were and are a lot of places in the U.S) in their segregation practices. If I recall correctly, for example, light-skinned, young Black people could only perform at the Cotton Club for white patrons, and never enjoy the club themselves. And a **huge** part of why I chose the Harlem Renaissance as my setting was so that Sam and Steve would enjoy it together with their friends. I mean, that White boy done grew up in Brooklyn in canon-don’t tell me he don’t know anything about Harlem. My dear friend LSR suggested to me to just create my own places and that’s what you see in this fic. The Silver Curtain Club, Hennessy Ballroom, Glanden Park and the like are all purely made up. 
> 
> But I didn’t want my readers to think that I don’t care and/or don’t know about the true nature of Harlem Nightlife in regards to POC & the right to enjoy and mingle interracially. So that’s where Maria’s line of “No, fuck the Cotton Club and every place like it” comes from; the Cotton Club still exists in this universe, but ain’t none of this here crew gonna frequent it. Also, the real Harlem, today, is in the midst of gentrification and that, I think, was important to show sensitively and possibly be not-too-triggery to show my readers. 
> 
> 3\. “Luke Charles” is actually T’Challa! That’s his canon cover name when he comes to the States in disguise as a teacher! Did anyone catch that? I saw a lot of hawt as fawk comic panels of T’Challa and Monica Lynne (who actually is a famous jazz singer in the comics) together and I wanted to have as many Black characters as possible to drive it home that Harlem, at this time, is majority Black & other POC (hence Maria Hill as a Latinx…Colbie Smulders is gorgeous, but MCU whitewashes like all hell). And T’Challa is a man that has a PhD in frickin’ Physics, made Sam’s wings and I was like…”You freakin’ nerd”. And T’Challa in glasses to me is hawt as hell. 
> 
> 4\. Steve & Bucky don’t live in Brooklyn in their past lives. That was one of many things I did on purpose because, when I used Google Maps to research how far apart Brooklyn & Harlem were, I said, “Holy SHIT, there’s an entire bridge between them”. And I didn’t want Sam to travel that far out (nor could I see a reason for why he would) and I knew Steve had neither the money nor the health to travel that far to see Sam & the rest of the crew regularly. So I had to quickly find another place in New York that was close to Harlem, but not in Harlem (yes, the two white boys here aren’t from Harlem…I did that on purpose too). And I found the Tenderloin. I liked that word and how it encompassed a whole lot of places in New York, as well as its proximity to Harlem. So past!Steve & Bucky are from there. 
> 
> 5\. The Tony you see here is comic/616!Tony Stark, hence the blue eyes from the comics. From what I’ve heard of AOU (ain’t seen it yet), I’m not fucking around with MCU!Tony Stark anymore. Just…no.
> 
> 6\. Umm…well, that’s all the notes I can think of for right now! Again, thank you all for the incredible love and support! Love you oh-so much and stay tuned for any new works that pop up here! :D


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